The Watch Dog

[William Brand]

"Oh, they's gonna pay fer tha'... twas a damn fine lantern..."

Dorian spoke as if it were a comment made at dinner.

"Aye. It was at that!" William agreed, shouting over the temporary chaos this made of the quarterdeck and the waist. He motioned for Mister Badger next, drawing him in close. "You have a rare gift for sail, Mister Badger. I need you to express this talent for canvas, now more than ever."

"Aye, Sah." Mister Badger said, and his countenance went all business-like at once.

"When I give you the word, we will come over hard to Starboard again. Our course as Northward as we can make it."

"Then you should know, Cap'n. I believe that will take us too wide of the fluyt. We can't come about fa..." he began, but stopped, for William was already shaking his head.

"We will come about VERY hard, Mister Badger." William said, speaking slower than before, and Mister Badger's face changed a little then as his eyes fell upon the gunnery crew employed at the quarterdeck's six pounders. His eyes darted forward along the Larboard gundeck and then back back to William.

"I understand, Cap'n." he said, his eyes widening a little in comprehension.

"Send your orders down to every man and woman now and ask them to be ready when they come again." William said carefully, choosing his words as he went. "I'm asking you to pick a fight with *Aeolus. Throw the gauntlet right in his face and bring this ship about harder than you ever have before! Crack the main a little if you must!" he finished, and his voice was a sharp whisper.

"I won't have to, Cap'n."

"So much the better." William agreed, for he did not like the idea of doing the Watch Dog anymore harm than necessary.

"She'll turn if I ask her to." Jacob Badger said in a tone of absolutes, and he smiled a smile that was quite different then. He had never imagined such a bold, albeit reckless act from Captain Brand. "If this works, I mean to buy you a drink after."

"If this works, I will need a drink after."

*Aeolus - King of the Winds in Greek Mythology

[Dorian Lasseter]

As William spoke with Mr. Badger, Dorian understood what boldness they were about to put into action. He smiled that ferral grin again and thumped his pike on the deck.

"Wish he'd ne'er put to sea, he will... Wish 'e'd ne'er put ta sea...."

He mounted the star to the poopdeck and cupped has free hand to his mouth.

"U zult deze dag betreuren!"

As he stepped back onto Holy Ground, William gave him a questioning look.

"What will they do with this day, Mister Lasseter?"

"I said, Ye shall regret this day.... least I think I did..."

William nodded sharply, Dorian smiled savagely, the dogs of war were loose'd....

[William Brand]

William followed suit and stepped up to the poop deck. He was almost overwhelmed in the Spanish colors as he called out. "IK ZAL NIET! IK BEN KAPITEIN BRAND! VERLOF HIER OF MATRIJS!"

This was answered by more cannon fire. One shot cleared the ship entirely, but for the hole it made in the mainsail. The cloth about the tear did not part much, but witnesses would swear later that Mister Badger gnashed his teeth when it happened. The second shot skipped ruthlessly across the on board stairway and the rubbing pieces along the 'Dog's Starboard side. This weakened the seam there and parted one of the rubbing pieces, but did little else but cause the gunnery crews to jump at the sound. Even the eight pounder, Goliath, shuddered a little on its carriage.

Mister Lasseter was at the rail with his spyglass, though he didn't need to guess the cutter's course of action. As she came about, the wind was at her disposal. Propelled by a wind far more favorable to her than the dog. She was now at liberty to make the rules of engagement, or so thought the English. They continued South by Southwest, to trap the 'Dog as the fluyt began to ease off to the West in an effort to pass the 'Dog on her Starboard side, their larboard guns already prepared for action. All of her gunnery crews crowded the larboard gun deck of the fluyt, intent on firing into the Watch Dog as they passed. Meanwhile, the cutter, bearing down on their larboard side, had her choice of attacking the 'Dog there or falling in behind her.

"She's coming up fast, Cap'n."

"Aye." William said, dropping back down to the quarterdeck. "Mister Pew!" He called, turning to the taff rail, and the Master-at-Arms came aft, meeting William at the stairs. "Send orders aloft by man. Tell the marines aloft to watch the cutter as it bears down on us. I want them to shoot any man who dares the tiller. Do you understand? Every officer and seaman who tries to take the helm. Cut them down. Make the helm a graveyard, Mister Pew."

"Aye, Cap'n." he said.

"They may fire at anyone they wish thereafter until all is done."

Mister Pew went foreward, and wasting no time in the exchange of orders on deck, he went aloft himself, passing the orders to Mister Franklin, who ran along below even as Mister Pew ascended first to the bulwark rail and then up the main lower shrouds. The Sergeant-at-Arms ran forward along the deck to mount the fore lower shrouds in similar fashion, bearing his orders up.

Captain turned to the rail and stood a moment with the Quartermaster.

"Corn'r a dog an' get bit fer yer troubles." William said, in a country fashion.

"Aye". dorian agreed.

[Black Syren]

The sun was illuminating the heavens with a fiery wrath casting the moon and her mantle of darkness from the ere sought after throne, and eternal battle of supremacy that would rage long after this battle at sea.

She sat tight watching both ships warily, she could hear the winds whistle past her ears and yet her mind seemed already turning over the latest orders. She pulled a deep breath locking it into her lungs then glanced over to her partner releasing that breath before beginning to load her gun.

At first she was awkward, the noise, her attention on the ships, the activity below, the swaying of the ship upon the swells. Then she realized she would end up dead if she could not focus. Wiping all from her mind but her task, she ruthlessly loaded her musket, set her teeth and growled low in her throat. A cornered animal was the most dangerous of its kind and if they wanted a bitch they had found one.

Eyes flashed coldly, face set as the first rays of warmth hit her face, but she felt it not, she doubted after this she would ever feel warm again.

[William Brand]

To anyone observing at a distance, the two pressing antagonists had their share of advantages over the solitary defender. The fluyt had fired what warnings it would, and had made the odd hit, palpable or not. The cutter was bearing down hard, pressing all of her advantages. The Watch Dog was moving on a weak wind with all of her gun ports closed. For all intents and purposes, she appeared the weaker target.

William put his head down the scuttleway to the ward room and called for Mister Brisbane. The man appeared at once at the bottom of the steps. "Run out out the wolves and prepare to fire, Mister Brisbane."

"Aye, Sah."

"When you hear the 'havoc' call, fire off Geri's round shot, whether you have a target or no. Then fire upon the cutter at your discretion with the other."

"Aye, Sah."

William went forward to the officers below the rail. Mister Badger was there, along with Mister Morgan. The masters, Franklin and Pew had just returned from aloft. Mister Youngblood stood just beyond them.

"The same orders as before the turn, Gentlemen. Speed. Diligence." Affirmatives came up from everyone. "Mister Youngblood."

"Sah!"

"Once we come about, the gun deck is at your disposal. Dispose of them how you may."

"Aye, Cap'n."

"Thank you, Mister Youngblood. Run out the Larboard guns forward and prepare to fire."

The Bosuns took up their places, Larboard and Starboard. William gave them a nod and they sent men aloft in preparation to turn. Weathered hands went to ropes. Minds turned inward. There they waited those last few minutes, hands behind the stage of the Watch Dog, waiting for a curtain call.

Mister Youngblood ordered out the three Larboard guns forward, heavy with shot and powder. They tied off the lines that would halt the cannons in their retreat from the added blast. He passed a lit slow match to a wide-eyed Meg Wardell and to the stock stern, calm, Master Carpenter, keeping the last for himself.

The Steward and Cook each took a six pounder on the quarterdeck.

William turned to Dorian then, knowing he might not have a chance to say anything after. If there was an after. There was a great deal he might have said. At a loss for both words and time, he removed his hat and proffered his hand. "We'll drink a toast after. You and I."

[Dorian Lasseter]

Dorian smiled warmly and grasped William by the profered forearm. A strong grip.

"Well 'ave tha' drink on th' Quarter of tha' Dutchie... If she still be afloat. An' a second toast on that of th' Cutter..."

He released his grip easily and turned his attention back to the pending action. The smooth confidence radiating from him was a help to the crew. Inside he was a mass of nerves, not fear, but as a spring coiled to breaking point, awaiting the time to act....

[William Brand]

William turned away and called for the Steward, but before she could respond, the cutter fired her first shot of the day. The cannon ball from her bow chaser carried away the corner of the Starboard stern, shattering the aft portion of the quarter galley. One moment it was there, and the next moment it disintegrated. The officer's head was carried off with glass and the ornamentation above and below. It was little more than a graze, but it shattered a third of the windows in the ward room. The men there were peppered with glass and dust as the door to the head blew open from the hit. Nigel was saved his good looks just then, for he had bent forward over Geri with the slow match, with his back to the head. The rush of pressed air from the hit came up the scuttleway and almost knocked Lazarus gage off of his feet.

William strode to the taff rail and cried, "HAAAAAAAVOC!"

Time stood still then in a way that only the brave will ever fully understand.

Mister Youngblood touched off Jeanie with three words, "For Mister Sons." The sound of the double load tore the day, for it was followed so closely upon by the other guns that the Watch Dog heaved on the sea. The blast was so loud that it almost buried the roar of voices that went up from all quarters. Every man, every woman and every boy, sent up an answering cry of 'HAVOC!" and William was moved by this more than the report from the great guns. His skin goose-fleshed at once, and a shudder went up his spine. It was not an unpleasant sensation.

"I could lead them into Hell." he thought in that moment.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Dorian's only reaction to the fire from the Cutter was to shift his stance and glare at the small vessel. When William shouted 'Havoc', he stepped up onto the poop, giving the gunners more room. There he stood like a celtic warrior of old and shook his pike at the enemy ships in an act of defiance. His blood was up yet he kept himself in check.... to a point...

"Yer doomed ye bastards! Doomed I say!"

He turned back and focused on the captain.

"Shall I head for'ard an' set th' rally point fer boardin'?"

[William Brand]

"I may require you at the guns for the present." William said, standing in close to be heard and gesturing to the three guns of the Larboard quarterdeck, for much of the crew was still aloft and gunnery crews were in short supply.

Meanwhile, the Watch Dog's sails, already turning in expectation of the blast, filled up at once. The wind gathered in her sails so quickly, that several able seamen grabbed on for dear life as the rigging leaned hard over to larboard, straining the stays and shrouds. The Watch Dog groaned more in that moment, then she ever had in any storm. The whole length of the main masts, comprising over one hundred feet of timber, bent against a tradewind that none of the masts were fully prepared for. The great roar of the 'Dog's crew died off in the wake of this new danger, as dozens of sailors stared upwards into the rigging, praying for the rigging to bear the turn.

Strangely enough, and fortunate for the frigate, the sound of the blast and cries coming from 'Dog had the opposite effect on the fluyt and cutter crews. They made the mistake of believing that the second shot from the cutter's bow chasers had struck the 'Dog amidships, though it had passed well beyond the frigate off her Larboard side. Still, the blasts from the 'Dog were interpreted as a hit upon the 'Dog's powder stores. This was further exaggerated by the shudder that went through the frigate and the shot from her stern chaser. Nigel Brisbane had touched off the cannon a mere two seconds after the others, having only just recovered himself from the hit to the quarter galley. The blast from Geri shot low and the round shot kicked up a huge plume of water behind the 'Dog, which was carried over her stern by the prevailing wind. It also had a poor effect on the remaining windows of the stern. Weakened by the hit to the quartergalley, the stern windows shattered from the roar of the 8 pounder. Combined with all the other noise, spray and smoke, the enemy onlookers were convinced of a hit, and they too broke the day with cheering.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Dorian had just reached the quarterdeck when the firings happened, and the ship made it's lurching turn. As the yells from the 'Dog's crew died and the cheer from the enemy was heard a look of almost disbelief crossed his face.

"The Bleedin' fools think they's won this fight? Lardy, they be a sad lot... sad indeed... "

He walked to the break in the deck and looked forward, seeing those gunners braced to run out the starboard guns. He then looked at the line on the quarterdeck, Leviathan, Bartholomew, and George. He paced behind them, stared down their barrels and adjusted each ones quoin, setting them all at the same elevation. All those on deck did not interfere with his adjustments as he had a mad, posessed look about him as he did so. Once satisfied he stepped away to the bucket of burning slowmatch and nodded, satisfied that all was as it should be.

[William Brand]

Mister Youngblood was one of the few to appreciate the advantages of the pressing wind, for as the Watch Dog heeled over to Starboard, the recently fired Larboard guns rolled forward again into their resting positions. It took little effort for the Master Gunner and his newly initiated mates, Rummy and Meg, to tie off the guns at once. Those on the quarterdeck experienced the opposite effect, for as the deck leaned, the six pounder were thrown hard against their breech lines as the 'Dogs stern pitched over. William and Dorian were forced to throw their weight against the cascabels to keep the lines from parting.

Down below, Mister Brisbane clapped a hand over his right eye, grimacing in pain. A shard of glass had scratched his cornea, and for a moment, Nigel thought his eye had been put out. He fell backward as the 'Dog pitched, and nearly dashed his temple on Freki's cascabel. He clutched at it for support, and pulled out the quoin by mistake, tipping the gun up to its highest elevation.

Now, Nigel Brisbane was not a man who believed in Fate, at least, he never had before. Providence was a thing for pastors and poets, but in that moment of pain he realized two things. First, he still had his eye, despite the burning pain which lanced across it. Second, the pitch of the Watch Dog, and the elevation of the gun, had given him a target. He had hoped against hope, that he could fire the grapeshot across the decks of the fluyt or cutter, taking out a crew. What he had before him now was better. As he touched off the match, the Watch Dog's eight pound stern chaser, armed with a double load of powder and grapeshot, tracked across the mast of the cutter.

. . . . . . .

Ciaran was already shooting the helmsman of the cutter, when Freki went off. It shook his concentration just enough, that he shot the officer behind the tiller, instead of the coxswain. Not that it mattered really, for even as he watched, the grapeshot from the Watch Dog tore everything above the deck to pieces. Most of the crew was spared by the blast, for it found more of a victim in the cutter herself. One moment she was as pretty as a painting, lit from the East. The next moment, she was torn apart. Stays, mast fids, shrouds, blocks, sails, studding booms, and lookouts, were all peppered by hundreds of lead pellets which whistled through her rigging, finding a thousand places to roost. Line went slack or snapped. Sail was buffeted and torn. Wood protested under the onslaught of ten dozen strikes. Even as she bore down on the 'Dog, she was crippled to a near standstill.

. . . . . . .

It took mere seconds for the Captain of the fluyt to recover himself long enough to see that recovering might be impossible. He watched with horrific fascination as the rigging of his companion vessel came apart. He had expected that cutter to hem in the frigate, and now the prey had become the predator. The Watch Dog turned so suddenly across his path, that he couldn't come over to Starboard for fear of running upon the frigate and stowing her in, sinking them and all who were with him. Instead of hemming them in, he was hemmed in his course, unable to engage the frigate on his terms.

To make matters worse, his pride had left him unprepared for so much fight from this frigate. The Watch Dog had seemed small, though in truth, she was not much smaller than the fluyt, and now, this Spanish dog, this pirate dog to a pirate captain, was tearing his small navy to pieces.

He was awoken from his staggering thoughts and shock by his Master Gunner. The man, one Joseph Aretineson, was seven years the Captain's senior in age, and three times the officer in a fight. The moment he had realized their plight, he ordered his men over to the Starboard guns, screaming,"Hurry or Hell take ye!".

He wasn't wrong.

. . . . . . .

Hell came in the form of the Watch Dog's Master Gunner, Petee Youngblood. Petee had signed aboard for this very reason. He could think of nothing better than to destroy a ship with cannon fire and be paid for his troubles. The only smoke he liked better than his pipe, was a burning gun deck on any other ship than his. He also liked the smell of spent powder. He was smiling as he touched off the match to Havoc, a gun whose name had only recently become so appropriate.

It also came in the form of Raphael-Etienne Chanault, who had been born under a different star. He had seen much in his lifetime, but he could remember few pleasures as moving as the act of touching off a cannon aimed at an enemy of France. He had asked this favor of the Master Gunner, and now granted, he smiled and whispered something that only a few aboard would have understood. He too noted the fitting name of his assigned cannon, Coup de Grace.

Sealegs Constance, little more than a messmate aboard ship, enjoyed the pleasure of firing the eight pounder, though pleasure was not the word she would have chosen. During her life, she had enjoyed her share of wins and losses. She had known her share of small victories. She thought she might number this among them as she touched off Straight Shot.

Mister Pew was given the honor of touching off His Grace. His face was all concentration and aim as he did so. Whether his thoughts were about the Monsignor or not, was his own affair. He was a Master-at-Arms first, and a man of reflections second. He sighted down the barrel at the fluyt as it rolled by and noted that one of the gun ports opposite him on the Dutch ship, swung up to reveal a hurried crew. He didn't even think of them as he touched off His Grace.

The firing of Goliath fell to Jonathan Hawks, who favored the gun which Christine had named. He liked it, not because of its connection to the former cook, but for the name itself. It implied power and perhaps it was the symbolism of a slung stone and a felled enemy of superior strength. It made him feel stronger to touch off the great gun.

Iron Destruction, was a gun which had seen its share of action. It had been purchased for farthings from a Ship's Master at La Desirade. The carriage had been a rotting thing which barely supported the trunnions. Now, under the careful maintenance of the gunnery crew, it was an elegant weapon of destruction. Patrick Hand gave it a gentle pat as he sighted down the barrel and touched off the match.

The irony of the name given to the ship's 16th gun was not lost on Harold Press. It did not bear the title of impending doom, which many of the guns bore. It was not a name out of myth or legend. Harold imagined that Firethorn had named Charity after a lost love, or maybe a temperamental woman from his past. Whomever it had been, it certainly had little to do with the grace from which the name stemmed, for it roared to life the moment it was touched off, destroying everything in its path.

[Silkie McDonough]

Murin stood with the the majority of the boarding crew. She raised her right fist and cheered with the others when the captain cried "HAVOC" and for that moment she was as courageous and cunning as any other on the Watch Dog. All to soon that confidence faded and she felt small again standing next to the men and women who were showing so much bravery and vigor. Her damaged left hand lay on the butt of one of the loaded pistol held in the brace she wore. Her knife and cutlass hung from the same belt within easy reach. The ship pitched and she was thrown to the sand covered deck. She scrambled to raise herself when a hand grasped her upper arm nearly lifting her to her feet. She looked up in fear expecting to be chastised for her clumsiness but found instead Nathan Bly looking down at her a smile on his face. "Steady there Murin" he winked. "Stay close when we board." he urged her. His face was kind but there was an intensity in his eyes that she had not seen there before. She stared unblinking at the other ship and swallowed hard. "Aye" was all the reply she could manage.

[Dorian Lasseter]

As the main battery of the Watch Dog erupted, the QuarterMaster grabbed up one of the linstocks and walked with an unsettling calm towards the quarterdeck's starboard battery. He paced behind the gunns and trailed the slowmatch across each touch hole as he passed, firing them in sequence. He had no need to wait for a proper target, for in the ensuing chaos aboard the Fluyt, the helm had been put over so hard that she was veering away, giving the quarterdeck gunns a perfect raking shot into her stern. Leviathan fired her round shot into the starboard corner of the wardroom, shattering bulkhead and stained glass. Bartholomew's shot hit below the windows and stove in part of the transom. George's followed close behind and tore off a chunk of the rudder before adding a gouge in the stern. The Fluyt continued around on her turn, as either the man at the wheel had been killed, or George's shot had jammed the rudder, or parted the steerage lines.

-------

Aboard the Fluyt, there was not panic, yet not calm either. The broadside from thier adversary had ripped into her gundeck, killing and maiming several of her crew. The quarterdeck was also a scene of disorder, for when the helsman put her over hard the deck had been tilted towards the enemy, depessing their guns and exposing the decks to fire. In the midst of the turn, a musket ball had found its mark in the helmsman's shoulder. He spun about and reeled in pain, lost hold of the wheel and as it spun tried to grab it to regain control. This mistake cost him his life for it jerked him off his feet and took him around and slammed him into the deck, pinning him under the wheel drum, breaking his back....

[William Brand]

The fluyt, now identified as the Maastricht, was veering off into the wind and she slowed as she went. Her foremast fell away as the wind finished off what Mister Youngblood and Havoc had begun. The eight pounder's shot had carried off part of the foremast high and the lower fore shrouds. The damage was exasperated by a shot from His Grace, under the charge of Mister Pew, which had caught the fore yard almost on its tip as it fell from the fore mast. It had shattered lengthwise, killing no less then eight men with the debris. This damage to the fore mast and sail further dampened the fluyt's speed, and she turned so wide that she almost dashed herself on the stalling cutter's stern, which was carried past the Maastricht by momentum alone.

The cutter, now bearing away from them by diminishing speed and a Westerly current, bore the name Heron across her stern. The Heron had managed but one shot as she drifted by the turning 'Dog. This solitary shot had passed through a section of the bulwark rails of the gun deck, leaving the waist of the 'Dog somewhat lessened, and the combined noise from the great guns had been so loud while passing the Maastricht , that very few had realized that their victorious barrage had come at a cost.

A screaming went up from the waist that was joined by shouts of surprise, dismay, and no small share of curses. Meg Wardell, covered in a spray of blood which was not her own, had both hands clapped tightly over her mouth in a vain attempt to halt her own horror.

Thom Fitch, more than a boy, but not quite a man, lay folded under the Larboard rail, a jagged hole just above him in the 'Dog's side. The Heron's round shot, which had done little real harm to the frigate herself, had struck Thom in his chest just above the heart. His body was almost in two pieces, with most of him from the chest up destroyed and folded over to his side. His left arm was nowhere to be found for the moment, and anyone who had ever wondered before about the mass of blood which might usher forth from a man, had but to look down to the filling sand at their feet for the answer.

This was the moment of horrific revelation for those who had never been to war, and a bloody reminder to the rest. Death visits friends and foes in battle.

Nicholas Johnson, who was capable of much dispassion, making him the ideal man for a boarding action, had done far more damage than this to his share of men over the course of his life. He often killed dozens at once with murder guns and grapeshot. He was a hardened man who could do good and bloody service when called to do it. Still, despite his own granite constitution, he had the presence of mind to drag one of the great guns coverings over Mister Fitch's remains as quickly as he could. The canvas filled with the stain of him at once.

This violent death caused a strange wave of alteration among the crew. The kind of change that only death can manifest. To have guessed the outcome of the crew's reactions before hand would have been folly, for those who might have turned from such a horror, stayed, and strong men looked stricken. Some who appeared hesitant before, now looked alive with retribution. Others who had given no outward sign of fear, now looked shaken. Some faces lent no more to this fall than that of an enemy. Yes, the sudden loss of one who had been well liked among a throng created unpredictable ripples on the water.

Harold Press was forced to take Meg Wardell in hand and turn her face away. Jean Dorleac bit his lip until it bleed. Owen Monahan, not generally given to acts of humanity, piled a second canvas on the first. James Whiting was half way through a whispered litany of prayer before he realized he had even begun one.

The Captain, only appraised by reasoning, came forward to the taff rail again. He was aware that someone had died. He was aware that it might not be the last. He could not see who it was from his vantage point and he did not scan the faces to see who might be lost. He didn't have the luxury. His was a Captain's reaction. He shouted out continuing orders to lay over to Starboard and back against the prevailing wind. The business of the day wasn't over yet, so he shouted down to the bosuns and they shouted the orders forward and up.

The battle was joined. Funerals would come after.

[Dorian Lasseter]

The QuarterMaster watched as the destruction on the Maastricht had somewhat settled. He stared down into the waist as some of the crew seemed to freeze in place when a screaming commenced. He stepped up to the rail naxt to the Captain as he bellowed out his next orders; Close for boarding. Dorian didn't even hesitate, he flew down the stairway into the waist, bellowing his own orders along the way.

"Boarders to me! Boarders to me NOW!!!" Mister Youngblood! reload th' gunns larb'd, for'ard wi' grape! "

He dove up the stairs onto the forecastle deck, and turned, waiting for all those assigned to the boarding party to assemble. He glanced to the slowing hulk of the Fluyt several times, watching as the Watch Dog was skillfully maneuvered around, keeping the wind to her advantage. Soon she was coming along the Starboard side of the Maastricht, the side that had been previously pounded. Soon the bow of the 'Dog was coming up even with the stern of the Fluyt and several men with muskets, presumably the ships' marines began to appear and assembled to repel boarders. Dorian looked down into the waist and there stood Petee, A rumbling sound under his feet commenced and he lifted his linstock. Dorian held out his arm and looked to the Fluyt, the marines were just leveling their muskets.

"Fire!!!"

Yelled Dorian as he quickly dropped his arm. A half second later the great gunns below the forcastle deck erupted with grapeshot, peppering the Starboard Stern of the Masstricht, a spray of crimson from the mass of marines and they stood no more.

"A'right you Dogs! Marines! Form up 'ere and ready a volley! Th' rest o' ye, be ready ta follow me! If I stop you best keep movin' 'r I'll give ye what fer!"

All of the boarding party looked fierce, ready to kill. A queer silence settled over them as the ships closed. Someone began repeating a single word under their breath, that slowly built in volume. Others took up the chant.

"Death, death, death, death, death, death, death!"

Those with their cutlass and axes out began to pound them on the rails and even the gun carriages on the forecastle deck, those with pikes began to pound the butts on the deck. And Dorian just smiled hes ferral smile as the bow of the Dog inched ever closer...

[Black Syren]

As Havoc was yelled all the world seem to fall apart at the seams and for a moment she was too stunned to breathe much less move. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, the blasts of cannonfire coming to her belatedly and bringing her to life. She could only watch in horror as the Coxswain was devoured by war, the yells of those trying to free his body from the wheel. She felt her stomach turn and lost her mettle, felt herself pale and tremble but managed to hold her stomachs contents and turn her eyes to the cutter and the Fluyt.

Although she had not known the sailor killed, he had been a member of The Dutch Fluyt, And now he was gone, never to see the glory of a sunrise or feel the peace of a night upon the sea. Would never feel the seaspray upon his face or enjoy a night in town on leave. And all because he had chosen the life of a sailor, the same life as she.

Then the world righted itself and she could smell the smoke, it overpowered her lungs, everything moved quickly nearly to fast to catch it all, and her ears no longer ringing were filled with the chanting of Death! There was no time to be squeamish, there was only survival, and time was of the essence. Every shot had to count, every shot was intended for the enemy and the lessons she had had as a child came swiftly to her.

Her musket already loaded was raised and she calmly sighted and narrowed one eye and calmly went to work picking off those Crew that would oppose them, and they would fall, remorse would come later, and perhaps regret at taking her first human lives, but now came the need for survival and it warred stronger within her than laying low to be fodder for the sealife that soon would began to circle as the blood spilled would lure them. "May God have mercy on my soul!" She whispered righting the musket and preparing it for another shot and another life.

[William Brand]

Bill Flint was a man of decisive actions which followed one upon the other. Every time a target fell he called out another to the lookouts, drawing the shooters to life after life, and moving from death to death. One marine would shoot, the other loaded, and Bill never stopped naming the targets.

"Marine on the fo'c'sle."

Musket report rang out.

"Gunner amidships."

And the musket report rang out.

The noise of the engine of war played on as the marines aloft passed judgment and lead over the Maastricht. A musket ball almost toppled Ciaran out of the maintop, the bullet just grazing his right shoulder. Flint drew his pistol and shot the assailant from the Maastricht's main top even as he called out another target below.

(The following portion was written by Mister Pew:)

The blood had begun spill over the deck and from under the tarp of Thom Fitch. As Meg was lead away from the body Jean was snapped back to the present.

"Mister Dorleac, some sand 'f ye please," I yelled above the din and waving to the young man. The blood had begun to run over the side causing the deck to become dangerously slick. It was one thing to lose a man in the course of battle to a good shot, but to become injured from a fall on deck was reprehensible.

On the bow, Mister Flint continued to call out the targets as if he was in a London pub playing a game of darts with his mates. The gunnery crew continued to move about loading and sponging down the cannon. The momentary lull had allowed our marines to load both of their muskets in preparation for the board. "And none t' soon," I said to myself.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Closer, ever closer the two ships came... then with a jolt the larboard bow of the 'Dog struck and ground against the starboard quarter of the Masstricht. Grapnels were loosed by those not in the boarding party and secured. There in the waist were more of the dutch crew ready to repel boarders. Mister PEW and Franklin both yelled the order for the 'Dogs marines to fire at the same time. Ten muskets went off as one and six or seven of the defenders fell.

"Boarders away!!!"

Bellowed the QuarterMaster as he leapt up onto the rail and jumped to the deck of the Fluyt. He was folowed close behind by Press, Mooney, Ajayi, and Pascal who landed soundly beside him. Pistols were discharged into the defenders and the clang of cutlass rang through the air. Soon Sealegs Constance and Patrick Hand leapt to the deck along with Nathan Bly and Murin McDonough. As the clash of steel, shouts, pistol blasts and all other noise of hand to hand combat ensued, a great shout rose as the Marines of the Watch Dog as a unit leapt the gap onto the Fluyts deck Followed by the Master-at-Arms and the Sargent-at-Arms and began to wreak havoc along with their brethren.

Mr. Lasseter was seen by many as he was the first across the gap to actually have landed pike point first in the chest of a poor sailor. He yanked it clear of the man and slashed it at another. Once all of the boarding party was on the enemy deck, he had no room to swing and jab with his halfpike, so he thrust it one last time, impaling a young man to the mainmast. Drawing his dragoons he fired them at two different attachers, killing one and wounding the other to which he clubbed on the head with the spent weapon. He then threw the pistol in his right hand, then drew his mortuary sword, warding off blows with a flick of his wrist. The 'Dog's boarders had cut a swath of death across the deck, The quartermaster heading for the stern.

[William Brand]

William discharged a swivel gun on the quarterdeck, just ahead of the Quartermaster as he pressed his advance. The Captain was forced to guess at unseen targets as he fired through the Maastricht's balustrades, killing two and wounding a third. The blast rebounded hard enough off the fluyt's rails, that a redirected ball passed across the buttons of Eric Franklin's waistcoat, which he utterly failed to notice in his charge.

Cut-throat touched off his beloved murder gun at the ship's waist, and 'Yer Maker' carried away a would be attacker, striking him mid way between the bulwark rails of the two ships. Marines of the Dutch shot back at the gunner's mate, but Cut-throat was well protected under the stairs from the quarterdeck, and he reloaded as quickly as possible, that he might defend the deck of the 'Dog as the crew abandoned her into battle.

A lone Dutchman made the perilous crossing to the 'Dog during this pause, escaping the fluyt to do do murder on the frigate. He drew pistols against Mister Johnson, but he was cut down by an unlikely defender, for Meg Wardell shot him down before his foot could even touch the deck. She was crouched with the musket she had fired from her hip, and in truth, she had not expected to use it in this fashion, for upon seeing the bloodied sailor cross the bulwark rails with drawn pistols, she had grabbed up the musket to defend herself with it club-like. However, her clenched fingers had slipped through the trigger guard and she shot the man through the side above his left hip.

Cut-throat Johnson stepped from the shelter of the stairway and buried a boarding axe in his back. "To me!" he yelled to Meg, and she was suddenly awakened to the full gravity of the day, and she he ran to the stair, where Mister Johnson passed her the bloodied axe.

Another Dutch marine made an attempt at the quarterdeck by utilizing some damaged rigging to swing across the space. William drew a Jacobean and fired, but the powder merely puffed in the pan and the spark did not discharge the ball. It mattered little, for the man fell even as he made the rail as the line gave way under his weight and he was carried into the sea by his own recklessness.

[Silkie McDonough]

How she got to the deck of the Fluyt was a blur. Somewhere between the shock of the first life lost and the first she had taken she found something within her that propelled her froward, urged her to fight on. In front of her lie one man face up eyes wide, her bloodie cutlass clenched in her right hand. "Your pistols" Nathan cried. Shaking, Murin drew the first, ignoring the pain in her left hand, and cocked it. She looked up into the wild eyes of an enemy, less than eight paces away charging at her axe held high. She pointed the pistol it at the man. The shot hit him squarely in the chest and he fell as she dropped the spent fire arm. The second pistol caught in the brace, looking up she saw an enemy pistol being cocked as it was pointed at her. Gun fire sounded close to her ear, Mister Bly's shot fell her would be assailant. Her second pistol came free and she in turn sent the shot into the lower limb of a sailor rushing at Nathan with cutlass drawn. It did not stop him but gave Nathan the split second he needed to turn and run the man through.

[William Brand]

A gunner's mate rushed the pressing attackers from the 'Dog, and Ajayi struck him with a length of split yard he had grabbed up from the deck. He hit the man so hard that he dashed out one of his eyes and most of his teeth.

Eric Franklin ran a man through from armpit to armpit, even as the man hefted a spent swivel gun to throw it into the fray. The gun collapsed upon the man and Eric was forced to leap away, leaving the lodged cutlass. He found another blade almost immediately as Patrick Hand buried first one knife and then another into a startled looking sailor. Eric grabbed the man's short sword while he still stood, moving on through the chaos as Patrick finished off the able seaman.

Sealegs Constance almost fell down a companionway as a marauder stabbed at her with a pike staff. The weapon turned upon her baldric and hung up upon the crudely fashioned axe ring she had placed there just an hour previous. The fool of an attacker tried to wrench the pike free rather than abandon it, and Sealegs took his hand off for his troubles.

Maurice Roche employed so many missiles in his attack that many after would talk of his deft fingers. Having disharged his musket and pistols, He picked up and threw every small object he could get his hands on. He killed the Maastrict's Bosun with a thrown chunk of iron from a damaged studding boom. It hit the Bosun in the face so hard that the man went over backwards, but not before the Bosun discharged his pistol blindly into the open, striking Manus Hingerty in his right shin.

The first victim to fall under Owen Monahan's cutlass was a boy of no more years than Thomas Fitch. He did not cut down the boy out of malice or spite. He was not motivated by any revenge. He was motivated by the veracity of the attack, for the Dutch boy sprang to the 'Dog and pressed an attack there upon Mister Monahan, cutting Owen twice before Owen could cut him down. Two deep gashes ran across Owen's side, one very near his gut, and Owen was obliged to step back from another attacker to clutch his opened side.

Andrew Smyth, who had himself been plucked from death by Mister Monahan only the day before, leveled a musket at Owen's attacker and shot him through the neck. This debt repaid, Andrew drew a pistol and narrowly missed a man bent on killing Mister Lasseter with an evil looking implement, probably meant for another kind of butchering.

[Dorian Lasseter]

The QuarterMaster had slashed, chopped, stabbed and pummeled his way deeper into the throng of the adversary, both dragoons spent and used as projectiles, he had drawn his working knife to fill his empty hand. He used this deftly to gut a man who had charged into him, grappling his sword. The man gasped and melted to his knees while thick blood spilt from his mouth. One large man swung an axe overhand at Dorian, but this slow maneuver was easily dodged, allowing the Irishman to strike the man in the skull with the pommel of his sword, the man dropped like a sack of flower to the deck. Dorian turned and saw ‘Lucky Tuck’ drop to his knees as a barrel chested sailor was choking the life out of him. Dorian chopped the man in the neck, almost decapitating him.

“Lucky bastard ye are! Down!!!”

Yelled Mr. Lasseter as an enemy rushed at Mr. Tucker with a halfpike. He dropped to the deck just fast enough to not get skewered, but the pike point snagged his waistcoat, and the man ended up stabbing it into the deck. Dorian lunged low and plunged his weapon into the man’s guts, wrenched it free and watched the man collapse as his lifeblood spilled over on Mr. Tucker. He kicked the pike haft, dislodging it from the deck and freeing 'Lucky Tuck'.

[William Brand]

Nigel Brisbane loaded the swivel a second time, and William made good use of it. He cleared a path to the Maastricht's poop deck, well ahead of the 'Dog's tenacious Steward. Miss Smith was cutting a swathe that William would not have believed, had he not been privy to it now. She moved with a deadly grace which surpassed what he had seen at the Don's dress ball. The fluidity of it was distracting. She cut down men twice her size, men which towered over her. From his vantage point, he was hard pressed to say whether she was grimacing or smiling as she went a reaping. Either way, it had an effect on those who fools her dared defend their ground against her, for they looked hesitant at best.

"She's striking her colors!" Nigel shouted, waking William from his observation, and for a moment, William was confused. Tudor had not reached the Dutch colors and no one aboard the Maastricht was employed in removing them. Then William realized that Nigel was pointing beyond the fluyt to the Heron, now well removed from the battle.

The English cutter was striking her colors.

[Silkie McDonough]

Murin had never used a cutlass before. She did not know if what she had was a good blade but she liked how it felt in her hand. The balance made her strokes easy and the flesh of her opponents gave more easily to her efforts than the cane in the fields had to the heavy awkward blade used there. Nathan was keeping an eye on the lass fearing that her inexperience would get the best of her but to his surprise a fire had been lit and her blade flew more easily than he had predicted. The two continued to fight in tandem, advancing aft.

Nathan was skilled, he quickly dispatched nearly three times as many of the Dutch than Murin, however, her dexterity and grace while in battle gave him the luxury to focus more intently on the fray. Nathan stepped deftly over his latest victim and continued. It was then that Murin had met her match and could not follow. The lad that opposed her was a lanky blond who stood at least a head taller than her. His ax may have been short in comparison to her cutlass but his strength was greater and as he chopped at her she barely managed to deflect his attacks. Stepping aside to avoid his next blow she tripped over a corpse and fell backwards onto another who had fallen just moments ago from Nathan's efforts. The tall blond came at her from above with all his force. Her foot slid on the bloodied deck as she attempted to push herself from the path of the ax once more. She barely managed to regain her grip on her sword and roll to the left as she slashed at him. Neither blade made contact with flesh. Murin scrambled to her feet as the sailor came at her again. He lifted his ax high, his back arched, his head tilted back and his jaw dropped just before his body crumpled to the deck, and Billy Flint withdrew his blade from her assailants back.

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

The time between when the quatermaster had first briefed her of her task, to when the order was given to the boarders had been the worst part. The waiting was always the worst part in every battle. But when action was called, all of Tudor's anticipation released and habit and instinct took over.

She was among one of the first too land. One of the first to draw blood as well, when a scrappy looking marine tried to stop her progress. The duel was short lived, there was no competition. She made her way quickly aft, any man fool enough to try and take her didn't live long enough to repeat the mistake.

It wasn't until she had reached the flagstaff that she met any real deterence. There was the Dutch crew's obvious strong-man. She couldn't be sure of his rank just by looking at him, but she could be sure of one thing - this was the one none of his crewmates would pick a fight with. She took a moment to size him up, giving him a chance to brandish his blade and glare at her, trying to intimidate. With a subtle roll of her eyes, she simply raised her rapier in duelist's salute, and then it began. First came the predictable parries and thrusts of a fair fight. Then the pace increased, and all pretenses were dropped, and all tricks laid out - rules of engagement hanged. The upper hand shifted, rythmically almost. First him, then her, then him again, each getting some jabs and hits in. But her defenses never faltered. It wasn't until she heard the shouts, both in English and Dutch that the stalemate was broken. She looked in the direction of the English Cutter that was being spoken of and saw their colours being lowered. It wasn't until she felt the sharp sting of blade against flesh that she noticed her attention to the fight had not been full.

She turned angry eyes at the Dutchman as the blood started to well from the long gash on her upper arm. And suddenly the mans bravado dimmed, although he hid it well. Waarom zouik een klein meisje moeten vrezen?" He said it almost more as encouragement to himself rather then the taunt it was to be to her, thinking that she would not know what he said.

With a fierce smile, she turned her head ever so slightly to one side. She had heard such insults before, and her dutch was just passable enough to retort. "Orndat dit klein meisje betere mensen toen u heeft gedood!" she spat back at him, venom to her tone, and the surpirse in his eyes at hearing his own language spoken by the little english girl was only superceeded by his surprise at feeling her sword dig through his chest.

After seing him topple to the deck, blood making a slow moving river to her boots, she took just a moment to wipe the sweat from her brow, and tie her sleeve tightly around her arm to staunch the blood, and then she turned to the flag staff. Sheathing her rapier, she pulled her dirk free from where it sat on her belt at her back, and with a few quick and sure slices of the dangerously sharp blade the rope was severed, and the wind gently brought the Dutch flag fluttering to the deck.

Dutch translations; "Why should I fear a little girl" "Because this little girl has killed better men then you." I don't actually speak dutch but babelfish is a glorious thing