The Watch Dog

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

The urgent voicings drew Chanault from somber pose, sudden frantic motion to the right recented his visual focus to the place he had deserted. Without thought, the Frenchman crossed the defined distance gaining a better grasp of the situation from harried statements ringing the air. He arrived in imediate proxy as they pulled Godfrey to the shoreline in a fit of strangled coughs. Fear and confussion saturated the small company of men with the boy's announcement. These emotions would have to be placed into check or the situation would be lost.

Moving into their midst, Chanault began calling orders to the gathered as years of Naval training and true rank presented itself. Several pairs of started eyes turned his way and there was a brief hesitation to the instruction, but any doubt was cast aside. Between the stern expression on Raphael's face and the tone of his voice, it was realized that no tollerance would be given to any bold enough to defie.

As instructions were carried out, the Sphinx cast off outer layers of clothing hastily. Striding into the roll of surf adorned in the simple cladding of linen under britches, he paused once to look back to the wayward souls lined up just above where the sea licked the land. What could be observed on their faces was a carnival of emotions and as the young lieutenant's gaze fell on fellow countryman Marchande, there seemed a silent understanding that took play.

As the gathering looked on, Raphael dissapeared into the watery turmoil, instantly feeling the greedy pull of undercurrents barely glimpsed on ragged surface. Unconsciencously, he reached out with his senses to try grasp the nature of water's whims, propelling himself with steady stroke and kick.

On the shoreline, Marchande had gathered the disgarded attire, standing as his shipmates did, in a numbed silence. Waiting out the nerve singed vigil to see how the unknown would unfold into the known...

[Silkie McDonough]

Murin and Nathan had conversed idly about the WatchDog and her exploration in these waters. She had surmised by now that the crew was not British but a strange mix, others like herself, men and women in need of something that they could not, or had not found on the land or perhaps avoiding someone or something. It calmed her fears to see that the crew contained many women. The tales of what could happen to a woman on a ship of privateers had tugged at the corners of her mind when she first arrived on board were now washed away in the waters of the oncoming tide. She peered at the shore as they talked. The tide, how swiftly it comes in and washes away much of the days toils.

The commotion on land started before it reached the decks of the WatchDog. Murin felt the tension in the air before she knew its source. She looked to the land, as did everyone on ship who could, as the names of those on shore were called and counted. Murmurs of "Mister Lasseter!" rolled quietly through the crew. The Celt who had greeted her on the sands only a day earlier lost to the tides! The man who she envisioned when she thought of their rescue. A large lump formed in her throat as the Captains command thundered overhead. She and her companion thought it best to remove themselves from the deck.

[Silkie McDonough]

Nathan held the door as Murin entered the surgery. Something seemed different in the room though she he could pinpoint the change. The two who were resting there lay quietly on their cot's. The lights were no longer lit in the room, perhaps that was it. Nathan headed to the seats they had occupied earlier as Murin went to check on the other, less able patients. Her mother had taught her much of the knowledge of a midwife. She knew at least enough to be able to keep these two comfortable.

Mooney, rested well, his breathing deep as one in slumber . She placed her fingers on his forehead. Whatever aliment had gripped him earlier had at least subsided enough to allow him slumber.

As she approached Ana the uneasy feeling that she had when they had entered the room found it's source. Ana had stopped breathing. Murin gasped. In her brief absence from the ladies presence Ana had passed from this life. For the second day in a row Murin let tears trickle from her eyes. She looked up at Nathan who had come to her side. He gently put his arm around her shoulders offering her what little comfort he could. Murin stood with him briefly her mind racing with far too many thoughts to keep them ordered. She swallowed hard, wiped her eyes yet again with the delicate handkerchief that the surgeons mate had loaned her and stepped from Nathans comforting embrace. No words were spoken as Murin moved to her friends side and Nathan headed out the door to notify the others.

Murin sat in the stiff chair at Ana's bed side and took the ladies hand, still warm from the life recently passed. She spent the last day denying that the delicate woman could perish but she now knew the reality of such fears. She did not sob, this was just one more in a series of losses Murin had suffered over the past few years. Somehow she had survived while her life had crumbled. She did not mourn for Ana but for herself, alone once again.

[Bloody Bill Flint]

Bill had scarce reached his hammock when the shouting began. Realizing there would be no time to change out of his uniform he reversed course and headed for the weather deck to render any assistance that proved necessary.

Nathan Bly headed out into the passage way, his mission to find Captain Brand and inform him of the sad occurence. In the passageway he ran into his friend Billy Flint.

"Billy, sumthin's happened with the lady"

"Murin!? What's wrong!?"

"No, her companion, Ana."

His mouth set in a grim line and the Redlegs knew at once what the boy ment to say.

Nathan's voice quivered "I feel so terribly for her Billy"

Knowing Nathan Bly as well as he did Bill understood the double meaning of those last words.

He nodded, "Go see to her Nathan, I'm sure she'd appreciate a strong shoulder right now, I'll go inform the Captain."

Nathan nodded and returned to the surgery. Bill strode purposefully onto the upper deck, the heavy metal gorget marking him as the sergeant of marines aboard his former ship banging against his chest. Amid the chaos he sought William out. Finding his captain he came to halt at parade rest before him.

"Captain I realize that now is an inopportune moment, but tis my duty to inform you that we've had an unfortunate occurence in the surgery."

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

The Surgeon kept vigilare near the rail that William had deserted to resume authority of command. There was still no word from those on lofty perches as to the Quartermaster being sighted and she concentrated on maintaining a facade of stoicism.

At request, she was loaned a spyglass which revealed a sight to further her unease. Jacquelyn watched with greatening frustration, as Chanault made brave venture into water's viracious appetite. In the fleet of moments to follow, her hand began to cramp from death hold grip on 'glass circumfrance. Time seemed to suspend and somewhere in near proximity, Jacqueln's hearing caught note of futher tragedy having occured in her realm.

Her complexion paled visably, in slow motion the 'glass was lowered to dangle from limp appendage. Haunting words from the not so distant past echoed in her mind, ' Le Chien de Garde c'est navire malchanceaux, cher...' Jean-Michaele was not prone to superstitions, but had not been hesitant in his private revelations to her on La Margarita. The Surgeon shivered in response to the rememberance.

Again the 'glass was raised to train on near land and revealed that the young Frenchman was returning to shore. There was a fatigued air in his posture and the normal fluidity to his movement was nearly absent. Words were exchanged with those that awaited the shoreline, but the distance cheated her in what was being relayed. It was the nod of negation delivered by Chanault that caused a wave of nausea to pass through her and she staggered back a pace. Odds were well in favor of an outcome that Jacquelyn tried desperately to push from her thoughts. A sensation of burn proclaimed its' presence in nasal cavities and biting down hard on the fullness of lower lip, she tried to disueade any show of tear.

Taking a deep inhaleation, the Surgeon regained stoic poise and turned to where William was conversing with Mister Flint. Without any regard to propriety, she bullied into their parley.

" I wish to be on the first vessel which crosses over." The fine line of jaw was hardset and the fire smoldering in her eyes stated that nothing but concurance to the statement would be acknowledged...

[William Brand]

William stood, not facing shore, but facing forward. It took a practiced calm to keep his eyes off of the beach head as he watched to see that all of his orders were carried out. The windlass was turning under the sheltered part of the gun deck and the crew of the Jollywatt were throwing in their efforts in preparing the Samson to go over the side. The Watch Dog herself was making slow progress, for the wind was not altogether favorable. Mister Badger was forced to give and then countermand his own orders more than once in an effort to wrangle the ship against the strong and steady wind coming off the island.

Mister Flint came up to the quarterdeck and snapped to attention. William was struck by a familiar air of nostalgia far too removed to be enjoyed at present, but he gave Mister Flint his full attention.

"Captain I realize that now is an inopportune moment, but tis my duty to inform you that we've had an unfortunate occurence in the surgery."

William nodded. The solitary gesture expressed the acknowledgment and understanding of the term "unfortunate occurrence. "Go on, Mister Flint."

The truth is, William did not want Mister Flint to go on. Right then and there he did not want him to say anything at all. He would have preferred to hear no bad news at this moment, but Flint was as right to tell him as he was right to know. A Captain must know all things aboard his ship whenever they occur.

Mister Flint's posture was formal, but his tone was slightly apologetic, for there was so much noise about the ship at present that Mister Flint was forced to pass on the news of Lady Ana's passing in a volume that was less than reverent.

William nodded slowly. His feelings were mixed enough that he dared not voice them aloud. There were times as Captain that he was forced to be unpleasantly pragmatic in the face of death and he was guiltily glad that of anyone in surgery, Ana had been the one to go. This pragmatism was enough to make him feel a little less than human, but an experienced sailor was more valuable to the Watch Dog's preservation and maintenance than a passenger, no matter her station.

Still, the loss was felt. He had to shake off the thought that the Watch Dog was a funerary barge. Instead, the Doctor shook it off for him, for she came up upon them like a wave.

"I wish to be on the first vessel which crosses over."

He turned to her. Neither her request nor her suddenness surprised him in the least. He expected that several others on and off the ship were want to make the same demand, for Mister Lasseter was well liked, which was uncommon for a man over so many. Even the Captain himself wanted to dive overboard with nothing but a trailing life line in search of the man. The only thing that kept him aboard was Ilex's vague description of the cave and the hope that it was cavernous enough to offer the Quartermaster air and refuge. This was a vain hope and so he looked at her a moment before speaking, understanding all too well her need to plunge headlong into dangers unknown.

In the end he explained his decision as concisely as possible, measuring the pros and cons of sending the ship's only surgeon in to harm's way for a solitary soul. He did not delight in his decision, especially given their exchanges, compliments and conversation just moments before. He chose his words very carefully. He did not want to upset her anymore than the immediate matters, but his answer, he knew, was still very close to a backhanded slap under the circumstances.

"No."

[William Brand]

...

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

Jacquelyn's eyes grew wide at the one word resolve, then narrowed as she mouthed the word without sound. Rage came forth and was barley held in check, though unvoiced thoughts could clearly be read through the expression that lay over her fine rendering of features. She said nothing, merely maintained her stance while the rage was replaced by something cold in nature; it was a quality that was attractive and repelant at the same time. In the blink of an instant, all of the turmoil that had stormed in her inner being dissapted to be replaced by a calculated calm.

The windows to her soul never wavered from William's face while the emotional battle waged over her own. When comment was finnaly issued in respose, the arctic chill that reflected true thinking coiled around each word. Each simple word delivered in perfect diction and annunciation, with an underlaying tone of one born to priviledge addressing someone of lower stature....

"As you wish."

Jacquelyn-Gabrielle Bertand, Surgeon in service to the Watch Dog; sister to the newly appointed Comte de Leyes; grand-daughter of the deposed Marquis de Lyon and secretive lover to the Quartermaster who's fate was unknown; turned smartly on heel and with controlled stride, departed the company of Captain and Marine.

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

Chanault retreated the greedy want of the sea to the shifting sand terra and those who stood its' mutible ground. He ignored the burning sensation of coral's bite that brazed his left shoulder and traveled crosswise the width of his back. Things of such nature would be tended to in good time and in comparrison to the incident that left deep scarring on his chest, the pain was manageable.

Though his body was conditioned, the elements had shown with force superiority in his venture and various muscles sang protest to the event. The Frenchman's pace was less its' usual grace as he moved toward the small band, their eyes asking questions that he had no answer for. Marchande came forward to meet countryman halfway, offering cast off shirt and breeches. With a word of appreciation in shared tongue, Raphael donned the later and waved off the former.

They waited in quiet anticipation for any scrap of knowledge to be offered, but none was to be said. He had no answers to their questions and could only offer a nod of negation. In this moment, he wished deeply that he could enforce his true rank, but beyond quelling the mounting chaos earlier, Chanault knew that it was not his place to issue orders of authority. To these men, he was nothing more than a Surgeon's Mate and to that he would stand to an await word or action from the ship that neared slowly in its' battle with contrary winds.

He removed himself from their immediate proximity and returned to the Banyan Throne. Regaining former seating, Raphael winced with a hiss to his back's torment while hanging the shirt over broken limb. Mental process ran through possabilities of better or worse as he scanned the waters from higher vantage point. The one fact that kept coming into play was that the riptides and strong under currents recently experienced left little hope for a welcome outcome.

Reaching to an inside pocket of near hanging coat, his hand ran over the familiar grip of well aquainted pistol, then beyond to the flask that had been tucked deeper. Raising the smallish silver container to his lips, the pale eyes focused on the frigate's progress and made note of the launch being prepare for saltwater embrace.

Raphael-Etienne Chanault did not look on the future encounter with William Brand with anything that could be considered pleasure. The future encounter with his Charge, even less so.

[William Brand]

Mister Flint looked uncomfortable at the interchange that passed between the Captain and the Surgeon. Each of them had good cause to say what they had said, but the chill that followed the aftermath of the conversation was worse than the stiff wind that buffeted the Watch Dog.

William stood with a face that spoke little of his thoughts, watching Tempest walk away.

Watching her move away was like watching a departing storm that had passed over without one drop of rain shed. It was disquieting and beautiful at the same time. Proud and dark.

"Mister Flint."

"Captain."

"Be so good as to remain in the Doctor's company. She may wish to speak poorly of me at present and may require an ear on which to bend her feelings at present."

Mister Flint didn't know how to take this at all and he couldn't be sure if the Captain was joking or not. In fact, since arriving on deck he had not yet learned why there was so much commotion about the ship. Still, when William showed no sign of amusement or alteration, Mister Flint snapped off an 'Aye, Aye' and went to the Doctor.

William remained.

[Dorian Lasseter]

The Cave, Los Hermanos

As the wave smashed into Young Godfrey and the QuarterMaster, both were blasted back into the cave. Godfrey's head had struck Mr. Lasseter in the jaw, causing him to almost loose conciousness as they were thrown back. As the water retreated and began to drag them out, he found purchase on the log that served as bridge across the tidal pool within, which was now flooding with the tide. As the water surged out the log jammed across the cave walls, slamming the QuarterMaster about as it did so. He clung to the wood in a daze trying to right himself when the next wave struck, hurling him and the log deeper into the cave. Again he was buffeted about, but held onto the tree as he felt his life depended on it. As the water surged out again, he lost his grip on the palm and tumbled some, luckily the grip of the sea faltered, leaving him sprawled on the cave floor. His senses returned enough for him to realize the next wave would soon pound into the cave, so he picked himself up and retreated up the slope, further into the subterrainian vault. Several moments passed as he collected himself. His jaw ached and as he lifted his left hand to touch it he found it burned up along his forearm. In the dim light from the blowhole, he found that his shirtsleeve was torn, along with the flesh beneath.

"Damn... bleedin' all o'er m'self... Gotta let 'em know I's alive..."

Amaizingly his dragoons were still tucked into his belt. Withdrawing one, he timed his movement with the next retreating wave and pointed it up out of the blowhole and pulled the trigger.

*Clack*

It did not fire. Desperately he tossed it down and quickly drew the second, pointed and pulled the trigger.

*Cla-Foof*

The powder in the pan ignited, but not the main charge.

"Bloody hell! Damn it all!!!" He yelled. Then tossed the pistol back into the cave, swept up the discarded one and swiftly retreated, just as the next surge pounded in.

As the tide came in, the waves came further into the cave. Soon the blowhole was being shot through with the water with almost every wave that came in.

Dorian retreated to the back of the vault when he saw the flicker of torchlight. Godfrey's torch lay in the far chamber! He dove into the hole, ignoring the pain in his arm and crawled into the far room. There laying in the sand was not only the torch, but his sea service pistol he had given to the young lad. Grabbing up both the torch and dry pistol, he turned himself and scrabbled back through the passage and into the vault. As he got to his feet another wave crashed up and through, spraying water through the blowhole, and into the vault. It was now too dangerous to try and fire a signal shot out of the hole, lest he be caught in a wave and surely drawn out into the raging surf. Looking about the vault he picked up his dragoons and stuffed then in his belt, then saw the pile of spades and a pick dropped by the men. He stopped and thought for a moment, until the next wave crashed in, then he grabbed up one of the spades and retreated back into the far room. Once there he took the torch and jamed it into the sandy floor. It took two attempts to get it to stay upright, then he sat against the wall to take stock of his situation.

As far as he knew, no one knew he was trapped in the cave... For all he knew, they would have assumed he was pulled out into the surf with Godfrey...

"Godfrey! Christ!"

He jumped up realizing that the lad was indeed sucked out by the tide and there was not a thing he could do about it. He paced across the room in agony, hoping, praying that the line the boy had been tied to held fast and the men on shore were able to pull him from the sea, no worse for wear. Realizing it was of no use to continue agonizing over the boy's fate he sat back down beside the flickering flame.

Again he took stock of what he had. Two pistols, fowled by the seawater, one dry, loaded pistol, one spade, His knife and sword, one torch that could die at any time... He dug through his pouch and pockets, finding that two of the pocket full of powder cartridges were still dry, all the rest were black sludge. With a sigh he emptied the ruined powder from his pocket and placed the two good ones inside. Slowly he got to his feet.

"Well... might as well see wot I c'n find... Til I can't see what I's doin'....

He picked the torch out of the sand and held it high, slowly walking about the large chamber...

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

The sun that now beat down on the explores dried out whatever remaning dampness their clothes held, as they continued forward. Tudor walked a good fifteen paces ahead of the others. They had just rounded another bend in the small, rocky islette. Climbing atop a large boulder, and squinting against the distance and bright light, she noticed a dark smudge against the white sand in the distance. Looking harder, she smiled as she realised what it was and took out her mess of parchments and scribled something down.

"What have you got there, Miss Smith?" Mr Pew asked, capturing her attention, with his curiosity, his outstreatched hand a request to view her work. With a smile and a shrug she handed the parchments over to him, not descending from her perch, or taking her eyes off the horizon. He scanned over most of the scriblings, impressed by the work, but paused when he came to the most recent of scriblings. "Now, what are these numbers for?" He asked at the random notations.

She smiled a little. "The first number is my estimation of the length of the island, the second is the width, and the third is how long it took us to circumnavigate it." He looked at her askance for a moment. The 6 hours she had marked down as time spent seemed off to him, they had only started 5 and a half hours before. She just continued to smile and pointed to the blur in the distance. Pew grinned. It would have taken any of the others another five or ten minutes to notice it.

"Well, lads, the boat is just down the shore" Pew called to the others, who squinted to make out the shape of the longboat, then cheered, glad to almost be finished with the first of the islands.

"Last one to it runs like a lass!!" Owen challenged, setting the rest of the small crew running towards it. Tudor just shook her head and stepped gracefully off her rock, following after at her normal pace. She found no insult in being the last one to arrive

[William Brand]

July 19, 1704 - Los Hermanos' Northernmost Isle

Seven Bells of the Afternoon Watch

Ajayi watched the men all break into a sprint. At first he was perplexed, for their pace until now had been slow and steady, indicating a need for caution or exploration. Once he realized they were laughing and chiding one another as they sprinted, he entered the contest at once. He overcame Mister Pew in short order, laughing as he passed. He passed Cutthroat as if he were standing still, for indeed he was, having no wish to run down the shoreline while carrying arms. Harold was no contest, though the man ribbed him a little to try and block him as he passed.

Owen proved to be the only one fast enough to escape the great Yoruban, but his speed was not enough. Just as Owen was making declarations of victory on the last stretch of sand, Ajayi threw a gathered remnant of spar right between Owens legs. He tangled immediately and went sprawling in a skid of limbs. Owen came up from the sand on his hands and knees spitting great mouthfuls of sand mixed with profanity.

Harold was forced to stop, not because he was out of breath, but because he was limited to either laughing or running. He couldn't do both.

Mister Pew slowed to a walk and laughing himself, he looked back along the beach to see that Cutthroat and Tudor were walking together.

Ajayi came back from the boat with a grin as broad as day. Owen threw a rock at him and missed by a wide mile, which only made Harold laugh even harder. The dark man brought Owen to his feet with one hand and began dusting off the sand with the other, despite Owen's cursing and protests.

Far away and out of earshot, the seventh bell of the Afternoon Watch peeled.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Far chamber, cave, Los Hermanos

Dorian walked about the chamber, mindful of his arm now that he had calmed a bit and the pain had made itself fully known. It appeared that his elbow was bruised along with an ugly gash from his elblw to his wrist. It had stopped bleeding, but now throbbed. He also had a slightly bruised hip which caused him to limp slightly as well.

Leaving his left arm at his side, he held the torch high in his right hand. The chamber was large, about fourty feet deep and almost as wide, the ceiling atleast twenty feet up. It was lower in some places, higher in others with some crevases off to one side. He poked the torch as far as he could into every spot he could reach, trying to see if anything was hidden in any of them. His first trip around yeilded nothing. On his second trip he noticed something in the third crevas, just out of his reach.

"Hmmmm.... mebee I c'n drag it out, wot'e'er it be..."

He carefully shifted the torch into his left hand and drew his mortuary sword, it came out too quickly and too short. In his tumble with the rage of the sea, the weapon lost a battle and was broken in two, along with some damage to the hilt.

"Bloody hell.... awww, breaks th' heart it does... damn fine weapon it were..."

He shook his head and sighed.

"Mayhaps it'll still be long enough..."

He reached up with the shortened blade and made contact with whatever was lodged in the crevas. He thumped the blunt edge against it and it sounded like wood. With some work he was able to get the edge under it and bring it close to the opening. Yes indeed it was a wooden crate or chest, covered with a cloth of some sort. It lodged itself completely then, too much for the QuarterMaster to be able to free it with what he had.

"Well... I recon when th' tide goes out an' th' lads 'r back we c'n get it down..."

He stood and looked at it for a short time more, then resigned himself to a long wait, and soon a dark one as well, the torch sputtered and grew dim.

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

The Surgeon reached the lower deck and the comfort of more muted light still fuming, for those who truly knew her, knew that when such a spark of anger was engaged, it would be a long time before the boil lessened to simmer. Two hands that conversed in the companionway were quick to step back and allow her passing without disruption.

As she neared private quarters, Jacquelyn paused stock still, hovering betwixt the doors of her realms and the Quartermaster's. Peripheral view indicated edistance of door to the left, though Jaquelyn remained focused forward. Under well placed foot, the dreamlike pitch and roll of the Dog's heading continued undisrupted or concerned to the matters that plagued mortal kind.

She turned right, never quite allowing acceptance to opposit doorway's existance and entered familiar chamber. With latch dropped securly in place, she paced the surround momentarily, then moved to where the bottle of 1669 was kept. A goblet procured and its' maw filled, the gunport that acted as window was opened, offering view to the outside world.

Scanning the shoreline that neared, incriment by tedious increment, the Surgeon finished the goblet's content and refilled its' want. Halfway into the first round she recalled the last time the stopper had been removed from this particular choice of elixer.

It had been choosen for its' strength and refinement, a substitute for laudanum to dull pain from injuries incured. A request made by the Quartermaster...

[Dorian Lasseter]

Cave entrance, Los Hermanos

After Monseur Chanault returned from the water and gave the negative that he had found anything, Mr. Warren took the helm.

"Alright lads, to the Cutter! Lets get 'er back into the water! See if we can find Mister Lasseter! Hurry now!"

He motioned to all the men standing numbly to follow him back to the beachhead and the cutter. Mr. Styles blinked, then followed.

"You 'eard th' Cox'n! C'mon Lads!"

He started quickly after Mr. Warren, then all the rest followed. Soon they were at the cutter, disassembling the shade and untying all the lines securing the boat to land. Within minutes all was ready and then men heartily shoved the cutter back into the surf, then clammored aboard, Chanault was the last to board, almost knowing it was a futile act, but he understood the need to act. Soon the men were at their places with the sweeps in hand.

"Pull Lads, Pull!"

Yelled Mr. Warren and all the men acted as one, their sweeps moving in concerted effort. Soon they were out in the rolling surf, Mr. Warren at the tiller looking over the sides, along with every other pair of eyes, all searching for some sign of their QuarterMaster, all hoping, praying that he was just out of sight, maybe clinging to some flotsam...

[William Brand]

The Watch Dog pitched between two opposing elements. The training of every person aboard came into play as they tried to bring the Watch Dog closer to shore, but it was a vain effort. They had no sooner managed some control when the leadlines demonstrated they were shallowing far too quickly. The anchor disappeared again below the waves and the Watch Dog was brought hard about. The sails filled at once and the anchor cable went taught.

William went to the rail with his spyglass just as the cutter crew went down into the surf. He noted the anxious Samson crew waiting to swing out their small craft, but William knew that is was foolish to send out so few in a boat that would be tested to its limits. It was better to let the cutter crew tackle a sea that few could manage better than the Coxswain.

He shook his head at the men along the rail and they acknowledged his silent, countermanded orders with disappointed faces.

"A fortune...but at what cost?" he said aloud, but no one heard it over the surf and wind.

[Silkie McDonough]

Surgery Ward

Murin heard the door open and the commotion beyond blew in with the wind. Someone strode up behind her. She knew it was Nathan. She did not look up or let Ana's hand drop. She just sat, still, Ana's hand in her right hand, her left softly stroking the back of the ladies hand the tears flowing. Gone; her father, mother, fiancé, friends, home, country ...all gone from her. Everything stripped away. Her dignity battered and bruised. Ana too was gone now.

Nathan stood silently behind Murin his strong hands resting on her shoulders offering what comfort he could. He could feel her shoulders shudder punctuating each silent sob. His heart ached to see the young woman in such pain. The ladies must have been very close, Murin had perhaps been in the service of the lady for some time and her loss was great. He could not know that the two had only met the day the ship had wrecked. Nor could he have known what brought them to the cluster of small islands.

She laid the ladies hand across her stomach, took the beautiful lace edged square of fabric to her eyes and finally allowed herself to grieve for her many losses. The past three years of loss and torment had suddenly burst forth.

Nathan helped Murin to her feet thinking it best to remove her from Ana's side. Perhaps some distance would be better for the lass. She walked without objection, the kerchief dabbing her red swollen eyes. His arm tight around her shoulder guiding her to the far side of the room. There was no place on the ship that would offer her any more privacy than the surgery.

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

Le Requiem

The Corvette had been delt a hand of fortune, but Fate played its' hand in turn; dealing a cruel blow to equal the standings. Consort had been found in timely manner, the brigantine's Master intelligent enough to adjust bearing for the same safe haven that Requiem had choosen in time of need. Two bells after returning to the status of travelling companions, sail was sighted in the distance and this time proved to be of welcome nature. A French chorus of joy and relief rang the air as the third vessel's lines were recognized. As if a dream, Chasse De Mer navigated a path to intercept and many a warm word was said of former home to many on these newer decks.

Lieutenant Lamaire smiled with satisfaction as he collapsed the glass used to caress the other's familiar curves. It was the first of such expressions to grace his scarred features in many an hour. By proper dictate of protocal, Dominique had stepped into position of command with his cousin's absence below in Dupris' care. His smile faultered slightly as he recalled the damage wrought on Fournier's being by Anglais interloper. The wounds were substantial and Dupris knew better than to say otherwise in Lamaire's private hearing.

The strain of recent events could be read over the Lieutenant's face, making him appear many years older than his four and twenty years. Never the less, he had done well to keep Requiem's crew and officers in a level state off mind, and the sight of Chasse had increased moral trifold. Regardless of the abuse that slowed the corvette to a wallowing pace, they would now be assured safe passage to Martinique without interferance.

As the other neared into closer proximity, Lamaire gave instruction to subordiant officer to take the deck, he would return shortly. Crisp salute was given as scarred Botticellian Angel left the Holy Ground for the Surgical Ward below. Fournier had been in and out of consciecousness and it was Dominique's hope that the Capitaine might be awake now.Reaching the entrance to chosen destination, the smile of minutes before widened in anticipation of cousin's reaction to good tidings. As his right hand curled to grasp the latch, the door swung inward and the tall Lieutenant stepped back in response.

Framed within the low frame of thresh hold, Chirurgien Dupris faltered in forward motion. The smaller man glanced to visitor than away to the rough planking below. Lamaire's brow furrowed and seeing that the medical man kept his eyes averted, looked into the chamber beyond.

Just barely visible from the door's half open obstruction, lay the cot supporting lithe form. The off white cloth that acted as coverlet was intermittantly colored by darker rouge, and unlike earlier, was drawn to full legnth. Lamaire brushed by Dupris, who remained unmoving in doorway frame. The smooth stride of confident warrior stumbled then came to abrupt halt, as the reality hit home. Lamaire remained frozen, but for the shaking of head in negation to what was viewed. From behind, Dupris slowly turned, speaking quietly the only words that would come forward, "Je regrette infiniment..."

The solem verbose wafted chamber air like a roll of heavy fog, and one could only wonder if the apology were to the Living or to the One who once lived...

[Dorian Lasseter]

The cutter Patricia, Los Hermanos

The men followed the Coxwain's orders and pulled the sweeps when needed, all eyes straining to see what, if anything, was in the churning water. The cutter made a zig-zag pattern as close to the shore where the cave was, out until the pitching surf was no more than gentle rollers, not a cables length fron the Watch Dog. They made this journey several times, not wanting to give up hope of finding the QuarterMaster. The longer they searched, the graver the looks became on everyones faces. Young Godfrey looked to be on the verge of tears, yet held his composure, occasionally taking a shuddering breath. Chanault actually stood gripping the mast, his shoulders hunched in concentration as he peered all about the boat into the waters surrounding it. All the men stole glances at each other in between looking over the sides, and at Mr. Warren for any signals or changes in orders. The Coxwain looked grim as he swung the tiller about for another pass when Chanault's arm shot out,

"There... Adroit... to Starboard!" He exclaimed and all eyes turned to where he pointed. Something rolled in the water, something black, possibly white and red. Mr. Warren shoved the tiller over hard and yelled at the men to pull. All obeyed quickly. As they neared what all were hoping was Mr. Lasseter, Styles shipped his sweep and grabbed a gaff-hook then moved up next to Godfrey in the bow. Carefully he used the gaff in the water and came up with what Chanault had seen. As Styles was swinging it inboard, Tucker grabbed hold of the hook end and removed the waterlogged hat of the QuarterMaster.

No one stirred... No one spoke...

[Pew]

Bearing Southeast aboard the "St Christopher", leaving the first archipelago

Cut-throat had finally caught up to the rest of us laughing at the mess that Owen still had covering himself. The Captain's Steward had reached the longboat and broke a smile at the commotion that Owen had continued to make. She made her way purposefully to the other side of the "St. Christopher" and placed her satchel within. The light breeze had just begun to toy with her hair gently brushing it across her face. She finally looked up and caught me staring at her. Quickly, I jumped up from the sand and moved about to ready the crew for departure.

Harold and Ajayi had begun to remove the lines that had anchored the craft to the small island. Ajayi walked the lead line back to the boat and began to push us off the small spit of sand. Wading into the gentle surf, Maurice and I hopped in the longboat and each put our hands out for Miss Smith and Owen to jump aboard. Cut-throat climbed aboard and took his position back at the bow, on hand on "Castor", the other resting comfortably upon his buckle. Ajayi and Harold walked into the waves nearly up to their chest before coming aboard. Taking the same spots when first heading to the island, the lads pulled the oars and began to row into the rolling surf.

Standing at the tiller, I pointed Southeast toward the next island. "Southeast lads. Mebbe this isle 'll a fortune for us, eh Harold?" Pounding Harold Press gently on the shoulder he nodded. "Miss Smith, ifin ye'd be so kind as ta take a sounding so as we mebbe able to figger out tha distance 'tween these 'ere isles..." She reaches into her satchel and removes her papers and tries to create an even writing surface.

The breeze, now behind us, helps us into the channel between the several small islands. Cut-throat pulls his spyglass from his pocket and scans the next island. Looking further south he looks again, this time for the Watch Dog, suppossed to be anchored just off the main island. "Mister Pew, Captain appears ta' av'e raised anchor..."

Miss Smith's head instantly raised and looked South.

"Give us a look, eh Cut-throat?" The spyglass was passed through the crew of the small boat quickly. Raising it to my eye, I peered along the shoreline of the largest island. The Watch Dog had indeed left it's mooring.

[William Brand]

July 19, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

Eight bells of the Afternoon Watch

'Just a hat...' William thought, lowering his spyglass.

The wind that had buffeted them all day had begun to slow in the heat of the afternoon. It played off and the sails began to relax.

"Just as well." He said aloud, looking up into the rigging, then back to the decks again. The mood about the ship had become a quiet, expectant one. It was a tense idleness that William didn't like, so he ordered the men aloft to reef sail in order to keep their minds off of treasure and losses. They completed the work at eight bells of the morning Watch and half the number were sent to their hammocks.

William gave over the deck to Mister Badger and went down from the quarterdeck to the passageway. He walked with purpose to the surgery, opening the door to find a scene of mourning.

Murin was in the corner furthest from the mortal coil which had once been the lady, Ana. William walked over to the body, which lay as it had in her last hours of live, peaceful and quiet. He looked at the face for a long time, saying nothing. Then he drew a blanket over her.

He turned to Nathan, who looked uncertain whether to speak, salute or remain comforting the grieving woman. William gave him a 'carry on' nod and Nathan returned it.

Then, William slipped out of the room striding the few short paces down the hall to the Doctor's quarters. He knocked once out of habit, but went in before she had given him permission or audience. She looked a little dangerous, but he closed the door and removed his hat before she could protest or address him. She made as if to speak, but he held up a hand.

"Your affection for Mister Lasseter has not gone unnoticed by me, Doctor."

She made as if to speak again and he raised a hand. She looked perturbed for some reasons that were obvious and some only guessed at. One lock had come loose from her usual, well kept hair and the strand hung down over one eye, and he had just enough time to think, 'Damn, It is no wonder he requites her feelings'.

"I do not care about your private interactions, except when they interfere in the immediate actions aboard this ship."

This time she did cut in, carefully, like a surgeon. "I did not interfere," she said with a tone underpinned with a careful anger. It was not a sharp retort and she said it without raising her voice. It was said with a clarity of pure resolve. Still, he was forced to raise his hand a third time.

"Doctor. I have not come to reprimand." He paused then, trying to remain as calm and careful as she was. There were too many emotions at once, choking the air of the room, which was not an overly large space for such strong feelings.

"There has been no body discovered in the surf. Mister Lasseter's chances of finding refuge in the hollows under Los Hermanos are remote. If he was trapped or cut off in his escape, he may yet be alive. If he has not found some limited refuge, than he is gone. I find no pleasure in describing these bleak possibilities in such absolute terms, but these are the facts. I understand your wish to go ashore. No one understands it more than I. I appreciate what it took for you to walk away just now in the face of my refusal, and while this was not a test of your character, the action shows that you are and always will be best suited to your calling on this ship."

William said this last part with an abbreviated bow and saw that the compliment, as strangely placed as it was, took her off her guard.

"Now, if you please, the wind has died off and you should prepare clothing and kit for your trip ashore. There may be injuries that require your attention."

[Silkie McDonough]

Surgery Ward

As Nathan guided her to the other end of the ward Murin thought about the shambles of her life, growing up under British rule, suffering simply because her family was Catholic, restricted by penal laws that stripped her clan of their lively hoods. Her father, denied his trade by the British died in prison for non payment of debt. Her mother, a midwife, struggled to provide for Murin and her brother Fionn. Murin, Aidan (her betrothed) and Fionn along with many others began protesting against the penal laws that stripped Irish, Catholics in particular, of nearly every dignity. The first few gatherings were considered the as little more than a nuisance but each time they would come back with more support. Land owners were starting to complain and commerce was suffering. The British guard arrived to put down the protest. Force was used; the rebels defended themselves but were no match for the armed guards. Aiden had lifted a sword from an officer and in the scuffle killed a soldier. For this he was hanged. Murin was sent to Barbados as punishment for her involvement. She had stabbed the guard who was kicking Fionn as he lie on the ground bleeding, she knew not her brothers fate. She hoped that her mother still lived.

Yes, she had a strong disdain for the British.

Nathan and Murin stood quietly in the far corner of the room for a few moments as her thoughts continued and her misery was magnified. She looked to Nathan to find some comfort. "She was a fine British lady, I have no doubt." He reassured her.

She recoiled from him. "Fine? British!" His bright red coat mocked her pain. "Two words were ner' so contrary!" He was a British subject, loyal to the King and country that had persecuted her people for so many years. He was one of them, the enemy! The reason she now stood alone in waters so far away from home! When she faced him again her expression was distorted with rage. The mourning lass was now a woman enraged by the suffering inflicted upon her people. "Damn Brits!" She attacked Nathan full force her fist pounding at his chest. "Ya villains!" The force nearly set him off balance. "Ya di'dis t'm'people!" Her voice rose through the sobs and tears, "T'me!" She continued to thrash at him, unaware of the pain in her left hand "You and yer King!" She shrieked. Nathan grabbed hold of her wrists and held fast against her assault. "Wot gives ya d'right?" she wailed, "Wot reason d'ja ave?" She exerted what little strength she had left fighting for release. He pulled her close restraining her in an unyielding embrace. "Why?" She cried her final question spoken close to his chest, her sobs and rage ebbing. She stood weeping, her strength waning, barely able to stand.

He held her, knowing there was nothing he could do to calm her. Knowing the woman was emotionally and physically spent, that the attack was not on him but on what he represented to her. He rocked her gently as he would a child. Her cries subsided to a barely audible whimper. Her despair weighed down upon her. She did not attempt to move from him, why would she? Where was she to go?

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

Jaquelyn said nothing for a space of minutes, as if in afterthought the stray tress was tucked behind right ear. All that William had said clattered around in her mind like a restess spirit. The fires of anger dancing the deep green eyes calmed a degree, but the worry that had fueled it remained in full capacity.

The lingering residue of checked emotions made the smallish chamber suffocating and she moved to open the second gunport window in effort to chase stifle away. Keeping her back turned, the Surgeon made half hearted gesture to the Surgery's adjoining door.

"I think it may be in best interest that the young woman Murin be relocated to my quarters for the time being..." She drew a audible breath that stuttered slightly with intake. "I fear that the loss of her companion may harken ill tidings on her constitution and believe that removing her from the Surgery's surround may aid in alleviating some of said problems."

Turning slowly, she watched William's calm expression momentarily, "I suggest the body be removed as soon as possible, it will not do well to have the departed around the living in ill health. Mister Mooney needs no encouragement in becoming deeper in malady..."

She caught herself before rattling onward in distracted voiced musings...

"I shall be prepared within the next thirty minute's passing."

[Bloody Bill Flint]

Bill arrived to find to find Nathan embracing the Irish girl. His mouth opened to lay on a scolding when he realized the boy was comforting rather than ravishing her. He muttered a half hearted apology for interrupting them and began to pack medical supplies to send ashore with the surgeon.