The Watch Dog

[William Brand]

The Making of Tawny: Part Seven

Three days passed before the discovery of Christopher Daniels and Brianna Woodbridge. They were found as Tawny had left them, but any dignity that he had allowed them in death was undone by jackdaws and crows.

Brianna was so badly damaged as to make it impossible to recognize her. She was identified only by a small book of poems which she kept upon her person. It was tucked neatly into her clothes which lay scattered about in a way that suggested that she had undressed herself. A few very large, round, golden coins were found within the pockets, which her parents could not explain. Her mother was taken to bed unconscious in grief for days while the father was found many times in the streets in a state of such drunken surrender that he might have poisoned himself with drink. He purchased every dram with the coins found near Brianna and would wail so loudly in public as to make those who witnessed it retreat in grief.

Christopher was found that same day and very nearby, as were his clothes, evenly distributed among those of Brianna. It looked as if they had helped one another undress in equal portions. His bodied was discovered naked and aloft, hanging in the midst of the lower rafters. His neck was neatly broken by the fall in the noose he had employed to hang himself. His hands were covered in caked blood, presumed to be Brianna's. No other mark could be found upon him, and but for the carrion birds, he would have been as beautiful in death as he might have remained in life.

No note was ever discovered to explain the scene. There seemed no need of it.

It was the worst, single atrocity that anyone could remember. It was assumed by all, though with understandable shock and disbelief, that Christopher had lured Brianna to that place of secrecy to lie with her and afterward killed her for reasons unknown. It was also taken as red that he had killed himself in remorse for that damning act. It seemed so obvious in its horrible simplicity, in its stark coldness, that it left a kind of wound on everyone who learned of it. The shock that such a thing could have happened, and that that angel of a boy Christopher could have done such a thing, shook the community to its core. People who had openly trusted the world about them, now ran the bolt of their doors at night. Some turned to God in anger, frustration or sorrow, while others quit his company forever. Those who could find it in their hearts to pity Christopher believed that the loss of both of his parents had driven him to the horrible act. Those who could only hate him believed that it was he that had caused their death and they spat at the mention of his name.

Cormac was devastated. He was only just recovering from the terrible revelations of Aingeal when Christopher disappeared. At first, he thought that Christopher, horrified by Aingeal and David, had quit the place to find solace elsewhere, but with all of his possessions and clothing left behind it had seemed unlikely. Now, with the whole terrible truth laid at his feet the slightest breeze might have carried him away. Once a man of great carriage, he was now listless and bent.

It would be impossible to say what Aingeal had become by then. She closed herself away in the tiny, secret room of the house and would not come out again.

David-Tara, now Tawny, was the only person for a hundred miles in any direction that felt just fine, if such a thing could be imagined. Outwardly he was careful to express a kind of confused sadness, which came over as genuine and pathetic. It never entered into the mind of Cormac, Aingeal or anyone else that David had had anything to do with the murder and suicide. He had in fact left enough evidence to betray himself, for even he had not thought of everything, but nature and chance had washed away much of it with the rain and vermin. Brianna's father destroyed all the rest when he burned the barn to the ground in a fit of rage and sorrow.

There is little more that remains to tell. Tawny was born in the destruction of everyone who had made him. Some innocent. Some guilty. Most were left alive. Some were killed and spared the years which followed. The most innocent perished at once, but for Brianna's parents. Cormac died a pauper, but not because of Tawny. Bad fortune just seemed to follow him after. Aingeal remained a dead woman as long as she lived and no more can be said of her that could not be imagined already. Many of the girls which had known David-Tara wondered what had become of him. He never went to any of them after, so when some of them heard of Christopher's deeds and death, they feared silently that he had been that very boy that had loved them once. One girl, so frightened by this idea, took herself to a nunnery. The rest enjoyed some love and some loss with others over time. Some were happy. Most of them were.

Tawny's other child was born and lived but a short time. It was common for newborns to succumb to illness and perish in early life.

It was a boy.

[Red Cat Jenny]

Having freshened herself and her clothing is the short time to be had alone, Miss Ashcombe started at Mr. Pew's voice while she dressed. She tugged at the lacings and gathered her hair hastily under her hat. Coming around the canvas Jenny hurried after the Ships Master out into the open air.

[William Brand]

Tawny began to stir from the deep, trauma-induced sleep that had left him at the mercy of elements, men and death. By now, the rot which had taken his ear and much of one arm had spread to parts of his brain. In decay, his mind began to open doors which Tawny had closed and forgotten. Light spilled in upon a memory all but lost...

He stood in the open door of the barn on the outermost edge of his father's property. He was dressed in simple clothes, bearing no adornment. The clothes of a traveler. He stood there, half in and out of shadow. The day was very clear, but Tawny could see the clouds that promised afternoon rains. The light on the unkempt fields made everything burn in a vivid color unlike any day that he had ever known and he smiled to think of what would be.

Brianna saw him there as she approached, her heart all but breaking with the hope that he would prove as genuine as his letter. She had it clutched in one hand, fearful to let go of it. The words within had been the sweetest she had ever known. They promised a love he had never expressed verbally and they belied a life of joy and comfort she had begun to suspect would never come. Brianna had tried not to love him. More than once she had even tried to hate him, but she could not escape the perilous company of him. He had changed so much in the year she had known him that she feared he had found another and that she would come to the barn one day to find him gone forever. Now, with the letter held so tightly to her breast, she walked toward him, begging in her heart of hearts for it to be true, reading the letter again in her mind, having memorized it completely.

My dream, my dear, my only love, Brianna,

Please know what a fool I have been to have loved you so much in silence. Until this moment I was mute, healed to words by your constant and perfect love. How can I ever be silent again, having found the voice of my adoration? Please, take what you will in raiment, in purse and in joy and come away with me to life as it should be forever. Come away in secret and we will quit this place, this nativity of our affection, and discover the world hand in hand.

Yours. Ever and always, Yours.

Her heart burst a little in joy when she neared enough to see his face. There was a sweetness to it and a smile so perfect, that had she not loved him before, she would have in that moment. It was so simple and perfect that it made his face as beautiful as it always should have been. Only in the throes which followed their passion had she seen any smile like unto it, but here it was in its prosperity and she couldn't decide if the sun made it more beautiful, or if it the sun, but she thought to die with joy some day with that smile to send here from this life to heaven.

He held his hand out to her, nothing more. It was only time he had ever done so. Tears had already brimmed in her eyes and she went to him, hand outstretched. They entwined in a kiss that killed her sweetly. She would have gladly died in that moment to preserve it and he too was touched in ways he could not express. They went this way, hand in hand for the first time ever to the straw he had strewn upon the ground, not with the chilling shadows of the barn, but in the open sun just beyond it.

"One last time he said, before departing."

The sweetness of these words caused her to weep as they played the parts they had rehearsed so many times before, but now as the lovers they were, not the ones they had portrayed. She laid aside her clothing in a slow, deliberate way like a ceremony. She set aside the heavy purse, brimming with the coin he had given her. "I saved almost all." she admitted in a way that made her seem very vulnerable. "Almost all." she repeated, and while she had kept most of it against the day that she might become pregnant and be cast out, she was glad of it now, for if they meant to travel far it would be that much more for them to share together.

She loved him then, in the face of his smiles and lies, never knowing that she had succumbed to an incubus. She never loved more than she did then and he let her. He was the demon absolute in that moment, for her love, as sweet and true as it was should have turned him from his course, but he would not turn aside from the impending path of murder he had chosen. He had made up his mind, and this is where he truly became the monster. Here, in the fertile soil of pure devotion, he smiled to think of her murder with no more thought than how it would destroy Christopher and all else with him.

It was in this moment when Brianna saw the smile on the face of the boy a year before. That tremulous and unsettling smile that she had not understood. It crossed his face again as they lay naked and entwined. It was almost the same as the smile that had broken her heart, but uneven and made of stuff not forged in heaven. Some true and perfect instinct woke up inside her then and killed her before the knife fell. Indeed, she closed her eyes in that moment and prayed in despair.

"Come, death...if it be not love."

If only she had died as peacefully as that perfect wish in her heart then. If only Tawny would have allowed it. The time of peace was past. Tawny had taken up the knife and his damnation at the same time.

August 5, 1704 - St. Pierre at Martinique

"Noooo..." Tawny groaned in that half waking world between perfect remembering in sleep and the dream of dust we wake to. It was perhaps the last piece of himself crying out to be heard. Some sliver of his former soul, lodged in the twisted metal of the monster he had fashioned for himself. In the epiphany of that waking second he regretted and prayed in despair as Brianna had done, and like her prayer, his proved too gossimir a thing. It was as fleeting as his sanity and it disappeared beneath his self-perpetuated evil. He woke in the pain and anguish befitting his crimes stinking of rot and vinegar. He could feel a hundred injuries burning. The near fatal shot, the severed ear, the scalded skin, the tomahawk wound, the ravages of rot and the dog's violent tearings. It seemed to him that he woke in Hell, fearing for the first time in a lifetime the death and judgment which comes to all, his many injuries to others finally revisited upon his head. Genuine and mortal fear crept into the cold goosebumps which sprung up everywhere on his flesh, even as it burned from fever. The bandages about him, he took for restraints and those heavy threads which lead men carefully down to Hell.

"Mon dieu. Pas complètement, monsieur ?" Someone said from what he took to be his left.

"The French..." he thought. "...the French...in Hell..." he wondered in confusion, and it might have been funny had he not been so certain then that he was damned. Still the words woke him, raised him to some hope.

The voice came again and it hurt his mind to hear words at all. "Parlez-vous français ?"

"Noo...noooo..." was all that Tawny could manage again, though he had intended to scream a little. The regret which had surfaced, that sliver in his skin pushed out by the puss of three dozen plus murders, made him want to cry out, but only one word could find its way. "...nooo..."

[Pew]

Aboard the Lucy

Preston looked south towards the Watch Dog. He could see activity aboard and thought about Luc and Eric. Ash joined him almost immediately at the rail.

"Sir?" Ash reported.

"Ash, wha' d' y' know about the Lucy," Preston questioned. He knew what he had to find out, but it pained him to figure he may already know the answer.

[Red Cat Jenny]

Miss Ashcombe paused. Was there something she wasn't supposed to know? Was there more to the Lucy and her crew than she'd been led to believe? Would her answer lead him to suspicion or accusation? No, he wouldn't press her for such a question in the open. He had every opportunity moments ago below.

Jenny's hands grasped her skirts as she looked about and then back to the man before her. His face revealed little more than the patient expectation of an answer. ..."Sir.?"

[Dorian Lasseter]

The Admiralty House, St Pierre, Martinique

All the marines of the Lucy and of Lieutenant Martin had been turned out and were dressed in formation. The Lieutenant was nothing but professional and Master Flint worked right along side, just as professional. Captain Lasseter, while he approved of the necessity of such was getting impatient to see who the injured man might be. He hoped it was a crewman of the Watch Dog, even one of den Oven’s men that could be questioned. He began to pace in front of the men slowly. Not that he had a battalion to inspect, just the two groups of soldiers. Once they were satisfactorily assembled the Lieutenant Martin and Master Flint turned to the Captain. Flint spoke first, saying the men were ready and the Lieutenant consented his were as well.

“Very well… Have ‘em take up their former squads an’ return to th’ search, quickly now, we must be off ta find out who it is that was found.”

Both men saluted and turned to do as ordered. The men shifted into the four man squads and were sent off. The Lieutenant and his Sergeant returned to Captain Lasseter, as did Master-at-Arms, Bill Flint. Monsieur Pertain stood off to the side away from all the military happenings until Dorian turned to him and gestured for him join them.

“Shall we be off Gennelmen?”

Master Flint Knuckled his brow and the Lieutenant bowed his head, spread an arm towards the road. Monsieur Pertain bowed to the men and they set out for the residence of the country doctor.

Six Bells of the Forenoon Watch

Edited November 11, 2008 by Dorian Lasseter

[Black Syren]

Bored beyond her measure she was just about to try and sneak upon deck for some air when a stirring in the bed behind her had her turning to watch as Luigi woke. For a moment pain crossed his grizzled face and he struggled to sit up and reach for a small tin cup of water. Hurrying over she admonished him “No! Lascilo aiutarlo.” She aided him in propping up pillows behind his back so that he could sit up and sat beside him upon the bed as she handed him the small cup. “Grazie.” He replied hoarsely then sipped thirstily causing Treasure to take away his cup “Luigi lento, dovete rallentamento d'attività altrimenti che vi trasformerete in in Illinois.” Then she handed him back the cup and watched as he sipped more slowly. Handing her the cup to refill he watched as she stood and moved towards the pitcher, her gestures, her movements fluid and graceful. “Ho pensato che foste un angelo del beautiul, ma siete un diavolo!” he grumbled eyeing her warily and causing her to turn to him with shock and then laughter. “If you can call me a beautiful angel and then accuse me of being a devil because I make sure you will not fall ill then you must be feeling better.” She made her way back to his side just as he asked why she was in the ward room again. Bristling indignantly she realized he was teasing as he gave a pain filled grin once her face turned stormy. “Pace! La pace I elemosina di voi. Sono un uomo indisposto.” She arched a brow at him and grinned “Peace and unwell my arse!” she snorted. “How do you feel?” her tones more concerned as he once more seemed to droop with exhaustion. “Tired lass, And me ‘and ‘urts. Can you ‘elp me in layin’ down?” She rushed to assist “Naturalmente! “ And once he was flat upon his back went to the small door to seek out one of the two ladies to assist Luigi with his pain. Knocking softly she waited and was soon rewarded for Maeve swept within and looking upon Treasure who made a gesture glanced in that direction to take in Luigi and quickly walked over touching his forehead and checking for fever causing him to grumble yet again “Un altro bello angelo in fronte e forma ma un diavolo per incitarlo così” he complained causing Treasure to laugh and Maeve to look to her in question. ‘He says you are a beautiful angel but a devil to poke at him while he is ill.”

[Pew]

Preston huffed. "The Lucy Ash; sailin', navigation, th' wind, blades, guns, pistols, thins' tha' go boom." He folded his arms tightly against his chest and waited.

[Red Cat Jenny]

Suddenly Miss Ashcombe felt small and out of place, looking up at Preston Whittinford before her. He stood at least a head taller than she, with his brawny arms easily twice as thick as only one of hers crossed before him. Shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. She felt like a foolish child.

Her uncle rarely made her feel more than opressed and angry with his belittling speeches or cold words dropped like stones on the front walk. But here she stood amongst men.. men she hardly knew, who knew the life at sea which she did not. If the ships master were hiding some amusement at her expression behind his flowing red goatee, it gave no hint of showing.

Jenny's mind raced for a moment which seemed an eternity, but the faces of the women on the Watch Dog, what she had seen of them came into her mind. She raised her chin and took on an air of calm directly in conflict with her insides. "Mister Whittinford, MUST you address me in such a manner? Is my name somehow unpleasant to you? His eyes widened and she quickly kept speaking before he could reprimand or answer. "I have been aboard your ship by the good graces of your Captain...and yourself..but four days. Having remained below for most of that time I can hardly say I am familiar, except with the galley and the way between... I do know you have renamed her and assume that she has recently come into your aquisition" If Mr. Pews eyes hadn't widened anymore, his brow did raise at this last comment. But he said nothing. Had she misstepped and implied anything less than honorable? Jenny felt like she was crossing the old brook on the plantation, slipping on every other stone. Only the peril here was far deeper than the brackish water which held no worse threat than ruined shoes.

"Posession..." she stammered.

A smile or the trace of one, tugged at just one corner of his lips and was just as quickly gone. It was a small relief and she found ground under her feet again, realizing that perhaps some of that ground could become common between them. There was some experience she did posess

"As for weapons, I am not as unfamiliar as you may assume, I have hunted fowl and did posess my own fowling piece.

I am familiar with many weapons of ceremony and war beloning to my former employer, in recognition only. He has a vast collection"

His expression did change to one of mild interest and Jenny tried to think of all she knew, to remember in detail the stories Garaud would tell in his study in the earlier days. Every piece he owned it seemed, came with a tale as ornate. She did find those interesting but the company became less than delightful and soon their brief chats would be no more.

"Go on.." was all he said. "As for sailing..my knowledge would encompass more of what one should NOT do," she mimicked her uncle's directions "Don't sit there, don't pull on that" and running out of words and resources equally, Jenny's voice trailed off but she had found her confidence again. If only for the moment.

[Pew]

Several of the crew had stopped and listened to the ship's steward. As much as Preston patiently waited for her to finish, it took all he had to not back hand her in front of the crew. He abruptly put his hand up in signal for her to stop. Preston cleared his throat and bit his upper lip.

"While this 's not a military ship, th' MEN aboard do assume a rank o' roles an' leadership. I will have t' require you to do th' same. While 'sir' 's not required o' myself, you will respect th' Cap'n an' his rank by addressing him 's such. For myself, MISTER Whitingford 'll b' fine." Preston spoke slow and deliberately to emphasize the importance. Miss Ashcombe looked as if she had been struck.

"Miss Ashcombe, yer role aboard 's t' see t' th' Cap'n an' his needs. 'n some time you'll b' called 'pon t' take 'p arms. While we dinnot use a 'fowling piece' aboard, you will b' trained aboard fer th' use o' th' musket an' pistol." Peter Norman and John Kingsman snickered when they heard Preston mocking Jenny's 'fowling piece'. A wry smile curled at the edge of Preston's lips.

"Is tha' clear Miss Ashcombe?"

Navigation Log of the Lucy:

Direction: At anchor, bow facing E

Speed: At rest

Wind: Light easterly winds, light breeze, 4-6 knots, small wavlets, crests are glassy

[Red Cat Jenny]

"Your insistence upon challenging those above you with such impetuous and disrespectful behaviour will most certainly be your undoing young lady!"

The pompous admonishment of St. James words rang in the ears of Jenny's mind as the flush rose in her face.

The sting of such a suggestion from the manservant of her relation, bore him in return such words as even Jenny was shocked by, though they flowed in fury from her lips. Ever after an indelible line was drawn between them as servant and priveleged. A separation of humanity that drew distaste in so many ways for her. But she would not be cowed, not by one who would spend his existence ensuring he never released himself from the bonds of his station.

Here there was no relation. No status borne of family. Jenny needed not look up to sense the attention of those close by and wondered if any among them would defend her. Muscles tensed to quell the trembling she refused to reveal, defiant even though defeated, she would not allow this sudden shift to jeopardise her course. Able perhaps to match the man before her in sharp words, she held her tongue. Jenny did not know this man, nor what would test his limits. There was no other ground between land and the sea and she had left one behind only able to move forward. To destroy that would seal her fate.

"You have made it quite clear sah" She did not meet his eyes as she spoke and cringed inwardly at the clipping of the word "quite". This change from an open ability to defy those she disagreed with could result in worse things than the back of Martin Garauds hand. Caution would be her companion in the weeks to come.

"What would you have me do first then Mr. Whittingford?"

[Pew]

"Miss Ashcombe, if you'd b' so kind as t' straigthen th' ward room and return th' plates t' Mister Marsh, you 'c'n b'gin there."

Jenny looked like a sullen school girl who forgot to clean the hog stall.

"Geoffrey," Preston called atop. The powder monkey scampered down the ratlines and jumped onto the deck.

"Sah." The boy knuckled his forelock.

"I'm findin' Miss Ashcombe's attire t' be not wholly suited fer workin' aboard ship eh lad?" quizzed Preston.

"Wha'?" Jenny tried to interrupt.

"Aye sah." Geoffrey smiled wholeheartedly.

"Do 's a favor lad. Find Ash some slops an' shirt from b'low. Get 'em t' her 'n th Ward Room eh?

"Aye sah," returned the boy. In flash, he headed below deck.

"Now Miss Ashcombe, upon proper dress, r'port t' young Mister Brocke, there," Preston pointed to a young man just finishing his meal amidships. "He 's the sergeant-at-arms fer th' Lucy. He'll teach y' about th' Lucy's own fowling piece." Ash frowned at Preston's deliberate mocking of her term.

"Yes, sir," Jenny curtsied.

"And Ash," Preston reminded gently, "a salute 'd b' more proper aboard ship."

[William Brand]

August 5, 1704 - St. Pierre.

William and Tudor made their way through the dock crowds, their eyes everywhere for enemies and friends. William still vainly hoped to spot the vagabond den Oven trying to buy his way off Martinique, but he only met the gaze of strangers.

They soon arrived at the Admiralty House only to learn of Dorian's departure just minutes before. Learning that he was gone, he requested the use of a guide to lead him on to that place, anxious to know the identity of the unknown, wounded man. He was delayed a moment as pleasantries were exchanged between him and those who would know him, but William could not easily hide his desire to be about the pressing business, so they let him go.

The night's rain was steaming on the cobbles as they crossed from street to street. They rushed a little as they went, and Tudor found that she had to walk with more haste than she was used to employing. William generally strode with more ease as he went, content to take in all about him. Now he went with his purpose bent to one goal, and even their guide was pressed to a near jog, being a full foot shorter than William.

"Sah, if I may...?" Tudor asked between long strides.

"This man may be no one but a stranger to us." William returned.

"Aye, sah." She had meant to say that very thing, and hoped the idea would slow him. William only strode faster.

Between six and seven bells of the Forenoon Watch

[Red Cat Jenny]

Seeing that she was now fostered into the care of two.. children, whose hair she should be combing before she sent them to play, did not assist Miss Ashcombe in tempering her disposition. Yet she did. Summoning a smile she spoke directly to Preston. "Mister Whittingford, I have already done as you have asked, in your absence. However I found only your young man Mr. Cuy - lemb- urch in the galley. I believe he said Mr. Marsh was not on duty as of yet."

Preston had paused to absorb the near pronounciation of Tjaack's surname, as he did so Jenny mimicked the salute she had seen the other crewmembers give and continued. "I shall have the Ward Room ship shape sah..in little time" She then turned to go praying to hear no further mockery or chuckles as she exited the presence of the others.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Outskirts of Saint Pierre, Martinique

Within the hour the officers led by Monsieur Petain arrived at the home and business of Doctor Jean-Bernard Dubernard. It was a humble building of two stories and thatched roof, with a well groomed flower garden out front. An aged wrought iron gate was held by a low native stone wall and creaked loudly as Petain pushed it open to allow the others to enter the grounds. They trouped past him in the narrow lane that opened as they approached an airy porch. The door within opened and a short thin man with gray hair came fourth and welcomed the men, welcomed back his assistant. Through some translated words, introductions were made and all were ushered into the front room.

Just before Eight Bells of the Forenoon Watch

[William Brand]

August 5, 1704 - The home and surgery of Jean-Bernard Dubernard

Tawny was as dead as anyone alive might be, but for the animal that writhed in his brain. It was a wild thing now, stripped entirely of all human function but fear and flight. It was the base instinct of all his remaining flesh crying out for one more day, one more hour, one more solitary minute to breath, eat, and run wild upon the Earth. So strong was this remaining piece of Tawny that it overpowered his pain, his meager regrets, his desire to perish quietly and carried him from his sick bed like a rotten marionette. This drive to live at all costs to his flesh lifted him from the stained cot where Doctor Jean-Bernard Dubernard had all but pronounced him dead.

Now, crippled to the point of mad blindness and barely able to stand, Tawny plucked up a delicate bistoury knife against the possibility that he might have to preform a surgery or two in passing. He stilled himself as much as he was able, for half of his wits seemed fast asleep or dead already. There was a taste in his mouth like molding leaves, cheese and dead things. One hand wouldn't answer the orders of his will. There was a pounding in his ears like waves of funeral drums and distant thunder. He couldn't rationalize the sight in one eye in concert with the halos of burning red that came from the other. His skin felt like it was sliding off and he was certain that insects were feeding in his mind. He pissed himself a little and the heat he lost caused him to shudder.

Tawny swayed then and almost went down. He would have done so gratefully, but for the animal. It wouldn't let him lay over and give up the ghost quietly. It whispered all the practiced lies he had taught it to remember over the years. It reminded him that he was immortal and beyond the reach of death in his understanding. He smiled to believe it again, the everlasting mantra of his every murder not to regret or care what he had done or might do.

Then the voices came.

These were not voices of his own conjuring. No fever or madness had brought them there. They were the voices of men, both French and English. One voice was the mocking voice of his recent resurrection and the others...they were the voices of his pain and almost death. He did not recognize them in any rational way, but he knew any voice even remotely familiar could not be coming from an ally in these recent days.

Still, Tawny wondered what to do and wavered in his decision to fight or flee. He pondered the closed door at his left with it's waiting sunlight and the other open doorway leading only to the voices on approach. He almost chose escape. He almost chose to flee, but the fever of his body pushed sweat from his brow hard enough to make him itch and he cut himself a little as he wiped away the sweat, forgetting the well honed instrument in his hand. This accidental injury woke him to his conviction to live in blood as he rushed forward into the unknown and to the waiting arms of his unsuspecting destroyers.

[Pew]

Aboard the Lucy

"Nate," Preston asked quietly, "do 's a favor an' see ifin y' c'n find out jus' what th' Cap'n's steward knows about th' arms aboard ship. Say she 'as fired a small musket afore." Preston knew the young man understood.

"Aye sah." The young man replied. "Live fire, sah?"

"Not jus' yet. Have 'er sift powder awhile. Mebbe get Patrick t' show 'er. Make some apostles, oil the guns, y' know."

Nathaniel smiled, "Aye sah, I do."

"She needs t' learn how t' load 'em first."

"Right sah, true enough," Nate agreed.

"We'll giver a shot later t'day. Maybe give 'er a double shot o' powder an' no ball 't first."

"O' course sah, no sense in wasting shot 'fore it's necessary." Nathaniel Brocke knuckled his forelock

"Very well Nate. Very well indeed." Preston liked the young boy. Maybe he shouldn't have hesitated in Nathaniel's position. He had heard he was a crack musket shot, just had not seen it yet. Preston had always found those that were the best in a certain aspect of their lives always made the best teachers. He waged himself a double ration to see if he was right.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Residence of Doctor Dubernard

Doctor Dubernard was a kindly older man, his face spoke of kindness and caring, his hands of steady skill. He led the men into his home and place of business, first offering refreshment which was begged off for the moment and questions of the man found were politely made. The Doctor explained that the man was not known in the town by him or Monsieur Petain, or Monsieur Michaud. He was badly wounded, possibly attacked by wild dogs, however some of his injuries were days old and many were not by tooth or claw. This caused great concern for Captain Lasseter who spoke aloud to his Master-at-Arms.

“If these injuries were done ta one of ours, Mister Wellings, and if done by our quarry…”

The look in his eyes said what his words did not. Master Flint narrowed his eyes and barely nodded in understanding. Doctor Dubernard did not understand what the Captain had said and queried Lieutenant Martin, who glanced at the Lucy’s officers. Master Flint took this as a cue and graciously began to explain the situation of the search for the Dutch captain and his allies.

As they stood in the front room and conversed, the men had placed themselves around the small rooms as not to crowd one another. The Doctor and his assistant were standing with their backs to a curtained doorway, the Lieutenant and his Sergeant to their left, and Captain Lasseter and Master Flint to the right.

As the conversation was ending, and the good Doctor was about to usher them in to see his patient, the curtain burst outward and knocked Dubernard back and into his assistant. All within the room reacted by taking a step back from the entity that had sprung fourth and now stood like a ghoul amongst them. The look in his bloodshot eyes was completely wild. Not one person there recognized who this might be. Flint grabbed up the hatchet at his belt instinctively but Captain Lasseter held a hand out causing him to pause.

“Good god, man… Who – “

In that instant the man lunged for the door and almost directly at the Captain, who reacted quickly.

“Damnú ort!!!

Dorian cursed in gaelic and was only able to draw his sword half out of it’s scabbard when the man reached him, flailing a knife towards the Captains’ face. Dorian brought up his blade and fended off the attack mainly with the guard of the cutlass, but a shriek from the ghoul told him that the blade had found flesh. Off the wild man shot, out through the door and into the garden, Bill Flint hot on his heels with a name cursed from his lips.

“Tawny!”

The Captain had his sword out fully then and was about to make pursuit as well when the Lieutenant stopped him.

“Capitaine, your face, it is bleeding.”

Dorian put his free hand to his face and withdrew it. It came back with blood, low, from his chin. Wiping at it he felt the sting of the wound.

“Bastún!”

He grabbed up his neckerchief and held it to his chin as he raced after his Master-at-Arms.

[William Brand]

August 5, 1704 - In the street before the home and surgery of Jean-Bernard Dubernard

Tawny was free, but pursued. He fled the house at speed, but not so fast as to outpace Bill Flint for long, not that Bill needed to keep pace with his quarry. In fact, Bill stopped just beyond the threshold. He took out the tomahawk he had discovered but days before with the rehearsed ease and calm known only to those who have stood among the Huron. He picked out the speed and movement of Tawny as he rushed upon a parting crowd of alarmed people in the street. Then Bill let the instrument fly.

Tawny was as possessed of strange luck as he was madness, for even as Bill sent the weapon hurtling through the air, Tawny slipped upon the cobbles and went sprawling. The blade, which surely would have found its mark between Tawny's shoulder blades, sailed over his fallen form and buried itself into the wall of a neighboring home. The loud 'THOCK' it made was smothered under the war cry that accompanied its flight. Tawny's pained and mutilated ear rang under the assault of that seemingly familiar sound, and the high call, which Tawny in his madness took for a trumpet, roused him from the stones.

Then everything slowed. The next few seconds resolved themselves into a kind of nightmare. The whole world seemed to pause with purpose, a kind of all encompassing reverence in the face of an overdue and much needed execution. It was as solemn as it was strange.

Tawny tried to gain his feet during that overpowering miasma. He lifted himself on his one good arm, his diseased arm broken and useless at his side. He turned and lifted himself on one trembling knee, revolving like a waking man. He felt like he was moving in heavy water, all of his swiftness diluted. He could see already in the faces of the strangers around him that Bill was closing fast, but he could not make himself move any quicker than the nightmare allowed. He just caught glimpse of Bill leaping the low garden wall in his periphery and by the time Tawny had turned to face his attacker, Bill was closing the remaining distance.

Tawny thought to smile then. He wanted to smile. He tried to gain his feet in defiance to Bill's assault, but Tawny made the mistake of looking directly into the face of his doom and his resolve all but melted away. What Tawny saw there was himself.

There in Bill's face was the cold resolve of death. Bill had already set aside his human self for the necessary act of purging this plague of a creature. Bill was beyond the line drawn in the sand. He had already killed Tawny in his mind. He had but to let the sword fall.

"This is what she saw..." Tawny thought with wonder, and smiled then despite himself. He convinced himself one last time that he was immortal and rushed to meet his doom, misjudging everything about his executioner in that moment.

[Silkie McDonough]

Cable Tier of the Watch Dog

They had let her out to use the head a short time after she had her accident. Murin was glad that it was raining at the time she walked slowly allowing the rain to wash her and her slops, but now, in the cable tier she had become uncomfortable in the dampness. She removed her slops and laid them to dry hoping that if any would come to the door she would have time to be sure she was presentable. She wondered what time of day it was. She no longer heard the rain. Light came in around where the anchor cable leads out so she knew it was day once again. A knock came on the door. “Miss McDonough, Your meal.” Murin did not rise this time. She pulled her knees to her chest and her shirt over her knees. The bolt slid and the door opened.

Light from outside, although not bright, spilled into her prison, she closed her eyes and turned her head against it. Robert Hollis began to chat cordially once again until he realized that her slops were laying apart form the woman. A momentary lascivious glint flitted in his eyes before he all but apologized as he set the morning’s meal on the floor, picked up the dishes from yesterday evening and stepped away to allow the door to close. Thirst had her parched. Her treatment was not cruel but since she was not to speak she could not ask for things as she needed them. She dove for the tankard grateful for water, thrilled it was fresh and cool. When she had her fill there was but s few mouthfuls left in the bottom of the container. She kneeled clutching the tankard for some time, her thoughts tumbling once again over the same thoughts.

Sighing at the tingling in her legs she adjusted her position. Finishing the drink she set it down and found the trencher that Hollis had left. She was not hungry, she pushed it away again. She sat leaning her back against the door. A tune came to mind, a child’s tune that she and her brother would sing with her mother, the same tune that she had sung to her brother’s wee child. She began to hum softly to herself.

Edited November 15, 2008 by Silkie McDonough

[Dorian Lasseter]

August 5, 1704 - In the street before the home and surgery of Jean-Bernard Dubernard

In all the years Captain Lasseter had been at sea, had been in and witnessed battles of men, he had never seen the likes of what occurred in the streets of Saint Pierre. Bill Flint had raced out after the ghoul who he identified as Tawny, the brute of a man, if you could call him that. Dorian had made it as far as the gate into the street when a second wild yell pierced the stillness. Just as Flint had closed on Tawny he jumped into the air. Pulling a long knife from its belt-sheath, he chopped it down at the outstretched arm that held a blade. As his feet met ground, Bill seemed to bounce to the side and into the air again and somehow ended up behind the retched figure who seemed surprised that there was no one right in front of him. A second later he realized he no longer possessed a hand. In that second a jab of pain was felt in his back and then his chest. His eyes shifted from the place where his hand should be, to a point of steel covered with blood, poking through his shirt. The last thing he knew or felt was an arm crossing his vision and a hand gripping his head as it twisted his neck until it cracked audibly.

Mister Flint let the body slide off his long knife and into a heap on the ground in front of him. He looked at the crumpled form for a moment, then lifted his eyes to meet those of his Captain. Dorian had done no more than raise his brows and nod his head once. Mister Flint saluted his Captain and began cleaning his blade on what was left of Tawny, ignoring the onlookers. Dorian turned back to the Doctor’s home to see what the others were doing, only to see them just outside the door. Both military men had a blank look on their faces, whereas the Surgeon and his assistant wore a look of shock and horror.

[Pew]

Aboard the Lucy

Ash had yet to return to the deck, but Nate was there with two muskets. He waited patiently with his box of apostles, and a small horn of powder. Preston watched for a moment as the young sergeant-at-arms fitted two shots for the muskets. Preston nodded as Mister Brocke met his eyes.

The ship's master suddenly heard an unfamiliar tune being whistled. He moved towards the bow and saw Patrick and Cyrus polishing Badbh

and Lugh, two of the ship's brass 6 pounders. He smiled as Patrick winked and continued to wipe the evening's rain from the muzzle. William DeWitt and John Kingsman were making their way down the ratlines just finished securing those lines that had come loose in last night's storm.

"Sah," both men reported.

"Gentlemen," Preston replied.

Charlie Goddon appeared on deck with a steaming mug for the ship's master. "Mister Goddon, g' morning."

"Aye sah." Charlie said. He saw Preston looking aloft. "I 'ad th' lads secure those which came loose last night. Mister Johnson 'ad th' boys out at first light." Preston saw the Bo'sun's mate watching Cyrus and his adopted brother.

"Cap'n Lasseter 'd be impressed," Preston remarked.

"Aye sah, hope so sah."

[William Brand]

August 5, 1704

William and Tudor arrived almost on the heels of Tawny's exit. William was out of breath, but animated and Tudor was his spry and wary shadow. William held his cane in a posture of purpose and Tudor had her hand on the pistol at her waist. The Frenchman that had followed them, was still coming up the street, for once they had heard the twice cry of Bill Flint, they had left their guide hurrying after.

William and Bill exchanged a nod, and William looked the man up and down for injury. Finding none, he stooped to examine their little known and short lived prisoner. He laid the cane under Tawny's chin and turned his head on the bent spindle of his neck.

"Tawny." Tudor said over William's shoulder, and nothing more.

"As I live..." William replied in a whisper. He remained crouched there on his heels but did nothing more than look at what remained of the man. It was almost impossible to tell where Tawny's previous injuries began and those done by Bill ended. The whole man was a mess of boils, snarls, twists and ruin. William's lip began to curl a little, for the adrenaline which had carried him there was waning and only the smell of Tawny remained. He stood up and away from the stench and went to fetch out a pocket handkerchief. "...and beat himself with stones...." William said, almost to himself.

"Sah...?"

"Nothing, Miss Smith." William returned, and looked up as Dorian's shadow fell over the scene. "How is it with you, Captain...?" William asked as he passed the handkerchief to Dorian.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Captain Lasseter nodded to Captain Brand, but did not take the offered handkerchief.

“Tis well with me Cap’n Brand, yet not. I am relieved to be rid of this cur, but anxious to not have found any trace o’ den Oven, nor of any others.”

Dorian took his neckerchief away from his chin and found the bleeding stopped mostly. He looked in ernest at the crumpled form that lay there and slowly shook his head. He looked down at his own sword and noted the touch of blood on it, wondering where it had bitten the flesh of Tawny. He walked around the body to see the arm less a hand. Dorian stepped back and spied the missing appendage not far from the ghoul. It still held the surgeon’s tool in a tight grip.

“No wonder I didn’t feel th’ bite o’ that blade… I would bet it ta be sharp ‘nough ta split a hair. I best get this back ta the Doctor.”

Using the tip of his cutlass, the captain popped the surgeon’s knife from the severed hand. He bent down and picked it up, noticing then that the hand was missing the small finger. A very recent removal with no bandage to cover it. With that bit of knowledge he walked purposefully back to the office of Doctor Dubernard where the two French officers, Doctor and assistant stood. As he approached, Lieutenant Martin stepped forward.

“Capitaine, Not to point out something seemingly obvious… you knew of this man, but as an enemy?”

“Aye Lieutenant… Let me be brief… He was a stowaway onboard th’ Watch Dog, from our encounter with a prize. He attacked a crewmember and escaped. Though our knowledge of this… man… was brief, he left his mark on many. I pray he hasn’t left any horror on this island in his wake.”

Dorian held out the surgical blade and held the handle to Doctor Dubernard.

“He found this as a weapon and near slit my throat upon his exit. I return it to your care, Monsieur.”

The Doctor was still in a state of shock, having tended this poor wretch to a better state of living, and to see that life ended in such violence. He slowly took the tool from the Captain with a slightly fearful look in his eyes. Seeing this, Dorian asked the Lieutenant to translate to the Doctor a more descriptive account of what he knew of Tawny, what he had done to the young woman aboard and his flight to freedom, the injuries to the other crewmembers. The look of horror on the doctor and his assistant changed from being horrified at Mister Flint to being horrified at the man they had tended.

[William Brand]

August 5, 1704

A tentative crowd had gathered by now, with some too horrified not to look. A cart driver had the presence of mind to offer an empty grain sack as a shroud and Bill Flint covered Tawny's remains with a cursory effort.

William sent the French soldier running again with word of the incident before joining the company of Dorian, the surgeon and his assistant. William plied the flustered doctor with many questions, but the man had no great accounting of Tawny apart from his discovery and repairs.

William's whole demeanor was one of disappointment. Having already written Tawny off for dead, it was no comfort to find him dead yet again, especially as this discovery lent nothing to their search for more important people.

The Doctor asked what should be done with the body and William's reply was simple.

"Bury him face down as deeply in the Earth as possible, Monsieur."

The pause which followed these instructions was punctuated by the bells of a nearby church, sounding the noon hour. It created a funerary mood.

Eight bells of the Forenoon Watch. Afternoon Watch begins.