The Watch Dog

[Pew]

"Mister Lasseter," I nodded towards the pile and spoke in hushed tones, "'ere's not nerely 'nough arms fer th' crew aboard th' 'eron. Any grapple or boardin' 'ad been a death sentence fer this lot. Dinnot know, but somthin's amiss."

[Dorian Lasseter]

Dorian eyed the small pile of weapons and a crease formed on his brow...

"Odd indeed... "

As he spoke, Mr. Weers appeared from below with parchment and writing impliments in hand.

"Mister Weers... Afore ye get started, I need a scrap an' pen n' ink..."

Weers handed over a half sheet of parchment and held the inkwell so that the QuarterMaster could use it. Taking the quillpen and loading it with ink, Dorian turned and dashed off some lines on the parchment, blew on it to dry it quickly and folded it. He handed it to Mr. Pew, and the quill back to Weers.

"Thankee Mister Weers..."

He smiled as the Coxswain's mate headed off, then spoke quietly into the Master-at-Arms' ear.

"You are ta ferry th' wounded ta th' Maastricht, give this note ta Cap'n Brand... "

He smiled but it was an awkward smile and nodded to Mr. Pew to go on....

[Pew]

"Aye sah." I turned back to the marines, "Mister Tucker, Mister Styles you are t' acc'mp'ny me to the Dutchie. We're t' ferry th' wounded there. Maurice, Robert, Lawrence, you 're t' stand watch over th' rest 'ere 'til 'r return." With a nod they all understood their roles for the next several turns of the glass.

I made my way over the side down into the cutter. Christopher and Jerrod followed soon after. They laid their muskets in the hull of the cutter and did their best to keep the boat as steady as possible in the gently rolling sea. Two Dutch sailors also scrambled down the ladder stairs into the cutter to help with the transport of the injured. From above, the wounded began their journey down the side of the Heron with cries, yelps and shrieks in pain. Each man was laid into or helped down in to the craft and made as comfortable as possible for the trip to the Maastricht.

Upon recieving the last man, the two sailors remained in the cutter. Jerrod and Christopher looked at each other and then to me. "Gents?," I asked quizzically, not used to seeing this kind of forwardness from a crew that was just devastated with nearly a single blow. The younger of the two men removed his cap and jut out his hand, "Anthony Coipman, sar." The second man did the same, "Jacobus, Jacobus Casteel." "Very well men," I replied. "You heard th' Quartermaster topside. On yer honour men," I nodded as Jerrod and Christopher pulled the oars and handed them to the two Dutchmen to pull the sweeps to reach the Dutch ship.

"CUTTER AWAY," Jerrod yelled as he cupped his hands and aimed his voiced towards the deck of the Heron. Standing at the tiller, I could see the long dip of oars made a rhythmic splash pulling us away from the Heron swiftly. Many of the men groaned when the bow would strike a wave awkwardly sending a shudder through the boat. I pulled the note Mister Lasseter gave me to give to the Captain, and read it silently,

"William,

There is something amiss on the Heron. Mr. PEW has informed me that the cashe of weapons aboard the ship is very small. I have seen this with mine own eyes and there is hardly enough to equipe each man with a single weapon. I shall have the marines investigate the ship thoroughly. I would ask that the Dog’s guns facing the Heron be loaded discreetly. My gut tells me there will be trouble.

D. Lasseter"

"Aye, Mister Lasseter," I said quietly, "amiss indeed."

[William Brand]

The small boat bumped up against the Maastricht and Mister Pew ascended with Mister Lasseter's note at once. William read it, then looked up from it and in the direction of the Heron. Mister Lasseter was never one to understate caution, though the absence of large numbers of arms might mean anything, least of all a threat. Still, while these many prisoners outnumbered their divided and occupied few, caution was on everyone's lips, and William let no hint of the note register on his face.

William went forward casually, motioning for the Master Gunner. Mister Youngblood met him at the gangplank. They exchanged words there, and Mister Youngblood went forward in the frigate again to examine his remaining provisions of powder and shot. He did this as casually as a man walking in a park, going so far as placing his pipe in his teeth as an added touch and checking his waistcoat for match. Meanwhile, he took stock of his guns, powder and the Heron's position off to the South and West. She was turning slowly to Starboard and while she showed no signs of gunnery crews, all of them being under watch, she was presenting her guns on that side. Once he was well satisfied that no more powder was required if the Heron's crew should make any trouble, he turned again and offered the Captain a nod as he stood in profile.

"Pride...?" William thought, looking out at the Heron. "Mistake...?" There were many conclusions to be drawn from a lack of arms, but William thought it might be best explained away by arrogance or miscalculation. Perhaps the balance of power was a mistake on den Oven's part. He might have assumed that the Heron would be best used as a chasing ship, never intending it to engage in close quarters, like a sheep dog hemming in the stock. Perhaps their pride had left them armed with more arrogance than pistols.

William motioned for Eric Franklin, and the Sergeant-at-Arms met him in the waist.

"Mister Lasseter is investigating an unusual absence of muskets and pistols aboard the Heron. Please see that your marines aloft are resupplied with sufficient powder to facilitate his escape if necessary."

"Escape...?" Eric said, with not a little smile. William smiled a little too, for the idea of the Quartermaster giving up ground after it was won was improbable, almost laughable. "I pity the fool aboard that offers him ransom."

[Dorian Lasseter]

As the Master-at-Arms took the Patricia and headed to the Maastricht with his load of wounded, Mr. Lasseter watched for but a second then turned back to the workings on deck. He watched as Mr. Weers walked slowly past the line of bodies, writing down names and rank. Three of the dutch sailors who volunteered their help had stayed aboard, while the other two went with Mr. Pew and the wounded. They had finished for the moment and Dorian called the eldest over.

“Mister Stadtmeyer… lay aft…”

The man turned when his name was called, he nodded and walked toward the QuarterMaster at a reasonable pace. He nodded again and stopped a pace from Dorian and quickly knuckled his forelock, standing at a form of attention.

“Aye sir?”

Dorian looked him in the eye, looked at the men on deck standing in a mass guarded by the ‘Dog’s marines and wrinkled his brow. He spoke quietly with a slow, determined edge on his voice.

“Mister Stadtmeyer… M’gut tells me somat ain’t right on this ship… Can I trust you to tell me what that might be?”

Stadtmeyer became thoughtful for a moment.

“Aye Master Lasseter, I’ll tell ya what ya want to know… “

“Very goode… why are there so little arms aboard? Something happen here? Or hidden in the hold taking up all available space?”

The Dutchman grunted with disgust and spoke loudly.

“No.. nothin’ going on like that… Da fool Kepitain thought we could take you as a prize, had us dump all we could over the board to lighten us, give us more speed… We hardly got any cannon shot, food, water or stores left. That’s why we got so little of anything aboard.”

As he finished there was a yell from the group of sailors foreward, and a pair of men burst from the crowd each brandishing their work knives. They ran at the QuarterMaster and Mr. Stadtmeyer hell bent on causing harm. Stadtmeyer dropped into a fighting crouch while Mr. Lasseter deftly drew a pistol in each hand and pointed them at the advancing men.

*Clatch, Boom*

*Clatch, fwuff*

One pistol fired its load into one man’s gut dropping him, while the other misfired. The man ran at Dorian and raised his knife. Dorian took one step back and threw both pistols at the man, striking him with one but this did not stop him. He had no time to draw his sword, as the man was upon him. Dorian grabbed at the knife being thrust down at him, catching the man’s wrist and deflecting the blade. He heard a guttural yell and heard a thump and the man collapsed, falling on him, sending them both to the deck. Mr. Lasseter rolled the limp form off of him and stood. Stadtmeyer helped him up with one hand while a deck seam mallot was held in the other.

“Thank you, Mister Stadtmeyer… “

“Aye sir.”

The Quartermaster looked to the crowd of sailors, no one else had moved, most likely due to having muskets leveled at them by the remaining marines. The gut-shot man lay in a huddled mass, moaning that the captain was a good man. Stadtmeyer again spoke loudly, this time through gritted teeth.

“Da man was a fool! A reckless fool! “

“Stadtmeyer! Enough, please… tis ill of you to speak so poorly of th’ dead… e’en if tis th’ truth…”

The dutchman gave a short grunt and nodded, knuckling his forehead.

“Poor lads… “

[William Brand]

The report carried across the water and William turned to it and waited. Eric Franklin, part way through passing his orders down for resupply aloft, turned instead to the prisoners and cocked his musket in warning. The deck of both ships became a graveyard of silence for a few moments, apart from the dying who sent up a continuous chorus of mixed agonies.

"Ciaran?" William called up without taking his eyes from the Heron.

The marine looked over the side and sent down his report. "'ppears, Mister Lasseter has quelched a rebellion, Cap'n".

"Take your men out again, Mister Pew." William said at once.

"Aye, Cap'n." He returned, and the last of the wounded was barely even with the main deck before Patricia had disappeared from beneath him.

[Pew]

The cutter made it's way back to the Heron in half the time it took to get to the Maastricht.

Jerrod and Christopher were each on one knee with their muskets pointed at an unseen enemy. The two Dutch sailors continued to pull on the sweeps heartily. I loaded two pistols and tucked them in my sash.

"MISTER LASSETER!!" I called as I cupped my hands to my mouth. Maurice leaned over the gun'le and waved us to the deck. The cutter had barely been lashed to the side by the time Jerrod and I had made our way to the deck.

The scene showed one man doubled over on the deck clenching his gut and another lifeless in a pool of ever widening crimson stain.

"Mister Lasseter?", I asked while surveying the group of men and trying to find a target.

The Quartermaster stood, brushing off his shoulders the sand that had been laid upon the deck. "We may 'ave found th' cause for th' lessen'd arms aboard."

[Dorian Lasseter]

The Master-at-Arms came on deck with the two marines he had departed with, ready to shoot down any adversary… Seeing no impending threat, he walked to the Quartermaster, brandishing pistols at whoever might attack.

“Mister Lasseter?”

"We may 'ave found th' cause for th' lessen'd arms aboard."

Mr. PEW turned his attention to Mr. Lasseter as he made the statement, with a look of wariness.

“No worries… ‘ppears th’ Cap’n had a plan to capture us single handedly… had th’ crew lighten th’ ship fer speed by dischargin’ anythin’ of weight by th’ board… shot, weapons, food, ships spares… surprised ‘e din’t put off some men in a boat… Not ta speak ill o’ th’ dead, but quite a fanatic he were….”

Mr. Weers approached as Dorian spoke with Mr. Pew, overhearing the conversation he nodded and offered some explanation.

“Once ye broke out th’ Spanish colours, th’ man went… well… mad… Yer ship’s English built, an’ I suppose it caught ‘im sorely that some Spaniards had such in their possession… “

As he spoke, a slightly confused look appeared on his face and he blurted out a question.

“Why did you fly that flag when you aren’t Spanish? “

Both Dorian and PEW smiled and slightly chuckled.

“You may find out in goode time… ‘ave ye finished the list of dead n’ wounded?”

“Uh… ya… the list…”

“Thankee Mister Weers… that’ll do for now… soon we’ll be settin’ th’ Heron’s riggin’ ta rights…”

“Aye… Mister Lasseter…”

Weers hesitantly knuckled his brow and stepped away, resuming a formality left for those in command. Mr. Lasseter turned to the Master-at-Arms and showed him the list.

“I’ll have ye continue ta ferry o’er the wounded… I think we’ll not have any more trouble… start wi’ th’ lad I shot there, and might I have yer pistols since I am now without?”

[Pew]

"Aye sah." I pulled the pistols from my sash and handed the butts of the guns to the Quartermaster. I spoke with those marines and two dutch sailors who accompanied us previously and told them we would continue to transport those wounded back to the Maastricht. Jerrod and Christopher made their way back into the cutter. Jacobus and Anthony remained on the Heron and continued to help the wounded into the small craft. After several minutes we all made our way into the cutter.

Upon leaving the Heron, a small pool of blood began to take up the bilge of the cutter. While Jerrod took the place of Jacobus, the dutchman began to pail in a small bucket of water and then dilute the crimson fluid, all the while draining the mixture back over the side.

After two more trips nearly all of the wounded had been offloaded onto the larger Dutch ship. Arriving back at the Heron, we tied the cutter off and made our way up the rope ladder hanging over the side.

"Th' woundeds been unloaded an' accounted for sah. Jus' what ye see 'ere 's wot's left," I reported.

[William Brand]

While the wounded and the marines were ferried back and forth from the Heron, William finished his many examinations of the crew, damages and assets of the Maastricht. The strength along her gun deck was lessened by a third, for many of the gun carriages and cannon had been damaged by the ministrations of Mister Youngblood. William ordered every damaged cannon lashed in under the bulwark rails and he was forced to swap many of these with undamaged guns along her Starboard side, in an effort to balance the firepower of the fluyt. This occupied many of the prisoners who had escaped injury in battle, and for a time, it kept them at the ship's waist where the marines might watch them from the vantage point of the quarterdeck and fo'c'sle.

Nigel Brisbane was given the watch of the 'Dog's gun deck, so that Petee could assist in the alterations aboard the Maastricht. Nigel performed this duty to the best of his ability, but his injured eye distracted him to such a degree that he was forced to beg the Captain for a 'second' to stand the watch with him, lest he miss something due to the irritation. William did him one better and dismissed him, but not before examining his eye. Nigel was immediately nervous, for he had never suffered an injury that might rob him of any sight, so he tried his best to make conversation while the Captain scrutinized the injured orb.

"Have you studied...healing arts...sah?"

William turned Nigel's face toward the sun and peered in close, plying back Nigel's eyelid as carefully as possible. "No..." William said slowly, then added. "But some understanding comes from hurt."

"SAH?" Nigel pressed, as his unblinking eye watered in the prevailing light.

William let go of his eye and Nigel blinked several times, covering it again with the heel of his hand as before. He looked at the Captain with his one good eye and waited, for the Captain looked thoughtful.

"I was in Rome. 1688. It was Carnival...and I bought a mask from a street vendor. It was made of spun wire and paper. Once placed on the face..." Wiliam said as he pantomimed the gesture. "...one had but to press down on the wires to fit it to one's unique features. I did so, but a wire popped free of the lacquered paper and scratched my eye. Deeply in fact."

Nigel winced and nodded empathetically, for his own eye felt 'scratched'.

"A priest, trained in all arts of healing great and subtle, explained that my eye would heal, but that the scratch was almost deep enough to puncture that...membrane...which gives the eye its shape. One jot deeper and you would not have known me with my two eyes."

"Is it a scratch?" Nigel asked, sounding concerned, but hopeful.

"I think so. Have Doctor Fitzgerald confirm the injury."

"What can...what should be done?"

"Unless the Doctor prescribes otherwise, I recommend fresh water from the Monsignor's stores for the eye, and patience in the madness. The Doctor may have some agent of herbs or mercury to ease the pain. If this injury is like mine was, you will suffer for a time. I'm sorry, Mister Brisbane, but you will feel the specter of a mote for many days. It will feel as though an eyelash or a particle of sand is lodged within your eye. I can see no slivers or hair there, but I well remember my own need to pluck out the offending eye every minute of the day for almost two weeks."

Nigel looked unhappy, but also grateful. "I'll bear it as I can, Sah. Thank you, Sah."

"Ask Mister Johnson to take your place at the waist, and go to the cook for fresh water before interrupting the Doctor. She has others with greater need than you."

[William Brand]

William went again to the rails forward and called for the Quartermaster. "Is all secure, Mister Lasseter?"

"Aye...but for a few who don't know they're defeated!"

"Aye! We'll lower away the Samson and St. Kitt! Have the men there prepare tow lines that we might gam the Heron with the Maastricht!"

"Aye, Cap'n!"

William turned to Eric Franklin. "Divide those marines on deck by thirds and find me some able rowers in the prisoners. We'll bring the Heron over and secure her for repairs. Have the marines aloft cut down any prisoner out of his place, Mister Franklin."

[Silkie McDonough]

The two tars carefully laid their fallen shipmate upon a length of canvas that had been spread over the forward hatch grate and left McDonough and Mooney to attend the deceased. Paul simply dropped to his knees at Dinwiddie's side and keeled there quietly. Murin stood lost and forlorn. Again she was left overwhelmed with what had transpired since she was plucked from the sands of LaBanquilla.

The body of Thomas Filch lay nearby on the other hatch grate. Murin shuffled over to Whiting squatting beside Filch stitching the canvas tight to the body. Squatting beside the sailor she paused then quietly asked, “I nil er’ dun dis b’for. Wot needs b’dun?” The sailor looked at the lass one eyebrow raised then explained that two cannon balls should be placed near the feet and wrapped in the canvas as she stitched it tight to the body to insure sinking. Whiting’s stitches had sealed the canvas from foot to just above the mouth of the departed. He continued, “Then ye draw the needle through the nose,” he jabbed the large needle through the nose drawing the thick thread after, “...to be sure the lad is dead.” Only a thin trace of blood trickled down the side of the nose of the corpse. The sailor saw Murin wince at his action and a sardonic smile passed his visage. Murin stood for a few moments as Whiting finished sealing the canvas around the poor soul who laid there, knotted and cut the thick thread and handed both needle and thread to Murin.

Leaving Whiting she returned to Paul and Lawrence. Setting the twine and needle beside the body she began her work. First she lifted the frock coat and laid it aside. Starting at the head she began her search. Around Dinwiddie’s neck was a leather thong from which a silver Saint Christopher medal hung. She carefully untied it, took Mooney’s hand, turned it up and placed the medal and thong into his palm. He held the thong in his left hand using the other hand to softly caress the medal between his thumb and forefinger as Murin continued her search. She removed the baldric, belt and all manner of items that hung from them and respectfully placed the items beside Mooney ending with the brown leather shoes she unbuckled and removed from his feet.

Next she went in search of the weights. She inquired of Mr. Youngblood from where she should acquire the needed cannon balls. He looked to where the deceased lay and indicated that she should use those that sat nearest, between Zuse and Bertha. She hefted each placing them at Lawrence Dinwiddie’s feet. They did not roll with the movement of the ship resting in the hollows between the boards. She flipped the canvas in at the corners then on each side. Murin ran the twine through the heavy needle and pulling the bottom point of canvas to meet the center seam she began to sew stretching it tight as she stitched. For the second time in as many days she stitched canvas. Her left hand ached with the pressure. It may have bled, there was no distinction between her blood and that of the men whose souls she had so recently released from this life.

Paul’s hands joined hers, holding the canvas tight allowing her to rest her left hand while she continued to stitch with her right. They worked in silence; theirs was not a task that invited conversation, what could be said? Twice she re-threaded the large needle. They reached his nose and Murin paused for a moment looking to Paul silently questioning if he wanted to turn away. He shook his head no. At that she forced the needle through the nose of the corpse, again, only a drop of blood trickled from the point of penetration Dinwiddie lay there still as before. The upper point of the canvas was flipped down, the last few stitches made and the thread knotted off and cut. As Murin stood stretching her legs Whiting walked up handing her a sack, indicating Dinwiddie’s belongings he said “Give’em to the Quartermaster.”

[Dorian Lasseter]

Dorian turned to the Master-at-Arms.

"Right then... you 'eard th' Cap'n... "

Turning away from Mr. PEW, he paced closer to the crew of the Heron held as prisoners near the bow.

"You men.... If ye wish ta peaceably help wi' settin' yer ship ta rights, step for'ard... "

Several hands looked around and stepped forward, included in the lot was the carpenter's mate to which Dorian gave a slight incline of his head before turning his attention back to those who stood behind.

"Very well... those o' ye not willin' ta help peaceably..... Marines! escort th' prisoners inta th' hold!"

A hearty 'Aye-aye' resounded from the 'Dog's marines as each leveled their muskets and pulled the locks back full. The grumblings from those unwilling prisoners silenced, but none moved. Mr. Pew stepped over to the main ladderstairs to the hold, opened the hatch cover and turned to the prisoners.

"Move! Now! 'R be shot where ye stand!"

Slowly men began to shuffle towards the ladder stairs and headed below. Dorian turned to the willing helpers and gave them an order.

"You there, unbatten th' main hatch ta th' hold, pull th' gratings as well."

Some actually knuckled their brows before turning to task. In no time those headed into the hold were settled, and those willing men done with their first task.

"Very goode, men... now... set ta running cables out th' howse holes, ready fer th' ships boats... an' some o' ye be willin' ta pull a sweep might just get a tot o' rum extra if Captain Brand sees fit..."

There were smiles at the thought of spirits and every one of them set to task with a lighter step.

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

"That will serve, Miss Smith." the Captain agreed, but even as she saluted and turned away, he called her back again. "Have same water pumped up to the gun deck and see it washed down well before we come aboard again.

"Aye, Captain."

Upon regainig the decks of the Watch Dog, Tudor gathered up a few of the crew who were unemployed with any pressing duties. Some she set to washing down the decks as the Captain had ordered, others she had follow her to the ward room to start moving table and chairs. If ever any of them had any issue with following orders from her, it didn't exhibit itself today. There was too much work to be done, and to many emotions - pride, mourning, fear, exitement, regret - to be felt. There was not time for challenge.

Her arm stiffened as she went to lift one end of the table top, dismantling it to be moved. McCormick raised a questionign brow as he saw her wince and lower her end agin. Her bloodied sleeve had plastered itself against the wound, staunching the blood, but the movement of her arm had ripped the stiffened fabric away, tearing the gash open again. She just simply drew in a deep breath and ignored both pain, and McCormicks objections to her labor. She didn't know how soon the captain would be in need of meeting space, but she was determined that it would be ready for him whenever, and she wasn't about to let a small flesh wound stop her.

[Alder]

Alder knuckled his brow a few well assessed moments after the Quartermaster’s surprisingly directed gesture. Although still uncertain of his fate and his place, the carpenter’s mate was sure of his necessitity. As the Heron was drawn closer to the Maastricht, the butchery to her gun deck became ever clearer. Her massive guns were toppled like playthings of a willful child, carriages lay likewise in disarray. Rails were snapped, torn from setting and strewn about the deck, some piercing it in place from the force of well placed blasts. The foremast lacked all resemblance of the same and recollection replaced reason in identification of shattered relics of this once a noble vessel. One could only wonder, without further assessment, the state of her structural integrity. Nevertheless, the carpenters mate was a tenacious soul confident he could right these ills perpetrated by his captors. With the disheartening degree of work before him and the crew, his thoughts cast to the petulant prattle of one Mister Aimsworth as he was escorted off to care. Such a feeble spirit, Alder observed, unable to keep his peace within. His distain for his master and devotion to his trade urged his trek with a quiet resolve to fulfill his destiny.

[Dorian Lasseter]

As the Watch Dog’s boats ware all lowered into the water and began their trip over to the Heron, those willing crewmen had run out cables through the hawse holes. After a short wait, the Samson and St.Kitts were across the span of sea and along side of the Cutter.

“A’right you men… who’ll pull a sweep?”

Every man stepped foreward to lend a hand. There were enough to not only fill the Jollywatt and Longboat, but even the ship’s cutter, Patricia. Soon all hands were aboard the boats and settled, sweeps in hand. Each boat made their way to the bow of the Heron, were given the end of a cable to tie off, and stretch out. Each boat given a separate cable, each a different length the shortest to the Patricia, the longest to Samson. With so many backs to bend in separate boats, The QuarterMaster had found a battered speaking horn and stood in the bow to direct the boats. He directed the boats to draw out the lines, then have the Patricia, then the St. Kitts and finally the Samson to turn towards the larger ships grappled together. They closed the gap in good time, more details coming into sight of the happenings on the two ships as they drew closer. Both ships were busy with the crews making order of the chaos caused by the battle. Mr. Lasseter kept his eyes on all that was happening with the Heron, yet he took time to scan the happenings aboard the Watch Dog. He noted that the lookouts were still properly employed aloft, scanning the decks of the ships below, and keeping an eye on the advancing Cutter in tow. He noted Ciaran in the main, holding his musket lightly, almost looking at ease. Siren was in the foretop, looking almost the opposite, she appeared tense, holding her musket in a death grip. Her head swiveled around in quick movements, focusing on one thing, then another, and yet another. Dorian thought about putting a glass to his eye to observe her closely, but decided against it. If she caught him doing so, she might become unnerved, something that he’d rather avoid causing. The sound of the sweeps splashing in the water remained in almost perfect rhythm for the trip over. In short order, the Heron had been pulled over and was soon to be lashed to the side of the Maastricht, then great haste would be made to restore the small ship to the quick and able vessel she was meant to be…

[William Brand]

William watched the approach of the Heron, but only with a passing eye. With Mister Lasseter in charge there, the Heron was in good hands, so William was almost inclined to forget the matter for the moment. Instead he surveyed the decks of the Maastricht, watching those few who attending to the wounded.

Riend Halster was aiding a sailor who would surely lose his leg by day's end, for the limb was damaged past use or recovery. Riend was no doctor, to be sure, but he was using what skills he had, and more than a little common sense. Having fetched up a length of hemp, he was occupied in applying a toournecat. Rather than the customary binding, Riend was employing a knot more common to rigging than surgery, but it had stopped the bleeding and some of the man's discomfort.

Simon Dunwalt, was crouched near another man assisting Doctor Van Zandt as he took off a man's arm below the elbow. Simon looked pale and quite out of his element, but the Dutch doctor looked as calm as a man at cards. The patient was another matter. He was a frenzy of screams mixed with drunken pleas. Thankfully for all aboard, especially those awaiting the knife themselves, the patient passed out part way through the operation.

Bartel Raymer was demonstrating all of the candor and care of a good leader, for while he possessed few if any skills as a surgeon, he understood the requirements of morale. He went from wounded man to wounded man, strengthening each able seaman with words and with assurances. William watched him move from man to man, careful to all them by name as he went. Bartel Raymer went so far as to fetch water to a man who wasn't long for this world, remaining with him while he drank.

Kapitien den Oven was another matter altogether. He looked distracted and removed as he lent what little aid he could muster. Far from looking like a Captain at all, den Oven looked like a deacon in a brothel. All of the Captain qualities that should have been present in him now, seemed absent and he stood like a child in a crowd of strangers. William grew so impatient himself, watching this child-captain, that he stripped off his own coat, laying it aside with his cutlass. He rolled back his sleeves, and catching up a bucket and rag, he went down the row of wounded mopping blood and sweat away from the faces of the wounded. He sent for the 'Dogs cook as he went.

"Cap'n." Mister Lasseter said from behind.

"Mister Lazarus." William returned, looking up only for a moment. "Go below and make an examination of the Maastricht's stores. See what passes for food and rum on this ship."

"Aye, Cap'n."

"And fetch up the rum for Doctor Van Zandt there. Tell him that he may distribute it as he sees fit."

Mister Lazarus went off at once, turning first aft, then remembering that most ships kept their galleys forward and below. He smiled a little as he turned on his heal to think how spoiled he was to have a larder and cook stove level with the Ward Room.

[Silkie McDonough]

Miss McDonough handed the sack containing Dinwiddie’s belongings to Mister Mooney, “Tink ya better keep deez safe n’til Mester Lass-ter is able t’attend to em.” Mooney took the sack still in a trance, staring at the medal that the lass had taken from Lawrence’s neck. Murin was curious about the Saint Christopher medal. She had assumed that Dinwiddie was English just as Mooney. Finding a Catholic medallion hanging from his neck was a surprise, the Church of England does not look kindly at Catholics. If others knew he would have been persecuted. Perhaps his story was not so different from hers. She would ask Mooney ...later.

Looking across the ship over the ocean she could see the sun hovering closer to the horizon. There was still much work to be done before dark. There were still bodies on the Masstricht that needed to be prepared for burial but Murin was loath to continue to assist in that. Miss Smith had asked for volunteers to wash down the deck of the dog. Murin was glad for the chance to wash away some of the day’s mayhem. Grabbing a mop she waited for the clean sea water to spill from the pumps on to the deck. It splashed into her well worn shoes as she push away the sand that coated the deck. Her left hand ached a bit but the work was a release for her. It was pleasant here on the deck, the warm evening air gently blowing across the sea. She did not feel pleasant enough for a song or even a smile but cleansing the deck was a far cry more pleasing then the task she had just finished. As water continued to flow from the pumps she and several other crew members swabbed the sand and what blood there was.

A wry grin crossed her lips as she realized that this sand, taken from same island they had found her on, had been scattered upon the deck by her only hours ago. Now, she directed it through the scuppers and out to sea.

[Black Syren]

From her perch the winds whistled past her ears, down below the caps of the sea looked like running horses and the blue of the sea was spellbinding. Her gaze shifted to the deck of the Dog and she could see those not injured working on the damages, those who had been injured moving slowly, helping along others to the Surgery Ward .

The Heron was soon lashed to the sides of the Maastricht like an unruly horse but she could not dispel the tension that sat upon her like a shroud. As the Heron was lashed she noticed the small group of prisoners at the rear huddle together and called down “Captain, ye have a small group to the rear of the Prisoners on the Maastricht who are huddling.” She did not glance from the group again but kept steady focus upon them.

Maybe it was nothing, Maybe they were nervous or protecting one of their own for whatever reason, It could very well be a woman in disguise and shipmates sought to conceal such. But she would feel better once it was checked upon.

[Pew]

As the Heron was being lashed to the side of the Maastricht, I took the time to converse with Eric Franklin and recieved a brief report. We decided to gather a small assembly of the Marines. Each looked ready still for battle. Orders were given for both contingents; one group to remain on the Heron, and one for the Maastricht. Each member was to have one shot loaded in their musket and one shot in their pistol. The crews of both vessels remained unsettled especially since one had tried to attack Mister Lasseter.

"'n yer toes mates," was my quick direction, "we know n't what lies 'n store." Each marine nodded and returned to their posts about the two vessels.

[William Brand]

William went aboard the Heron for the first time. She was an elegant little vessel. She was a third shorter than the 'Dog in length along her waterline, but her fore and aft rigging was longer stem to stern than the frigate. It was obvious by design that she was built for speed and modified for war. The creature comforts of space and privacy found aboard the 'Dog, no matter how limited, were almost absent here. This ship, this English cutter, was built to fight and hem in the enemy.

Apart from her rigging, she bore a good share of guns and swivels. Her great guns were many for her size, but it was the swivels which caught William's attention. The volume of them was great, and had not Mister Brisbane taken his fortuitous shot with the stern chaser, the might have known significant havoc from the Heron's murder guns.

"Some of them have not been discharged." Mister Lasseter noted as he met William at the Heron's waist.

"Aye, we'll leave them charged for the present. Have Mister Pew remove some to the Maastricht's quarter and fo'c'sle.

"Aye, Cap'n."

"And now that we are together on the Heron, I'll take that second toast."

[Dorian Lasseter]

A slight sense of relief crept over the QuarterMaster as the Heron was moored to the side of their other prize ship, the Maastrict. The ‘Dogs marines had been doing their sailors’ duties as the ship was being towed by those of her crew who lent a hand in the boats. Now that they were in the company of the other ships, they went back to being the armed guards of the prisoners in the hold. The Master-at-Arms had given brief orders to them as they resumed their stations. Mr. Lasseter found the time to look about the deck for his dragoon pistols he had used as missiles earlier. He found them both, one the worse for wear. The stock was cracked from being thrown and the cock appeared bent.

“Damn… I missed wi’ this one… More fer th’ Master-ta-Arms ta work on…. The other pistol was not even scratched, as it had found a soft target when it found its mark. Dorian smiled and hefted them both, tucking them under his left arm. He looked about the Heron and saw Captain Brand just setting foot on the Cutter’s deck. Dorian watched as William took stock of the craft and approached him as he did so. He noted the Captain eyeing the great guns and swivels.

"Some of them have not been discharged." Mister Lasseter noted as he met William at the Heron's waist.

"Aye, we'll leave them charged for the present. Have Mister Pew remove some to the Maastricht's quarter and fo'c'sle.

"Aye, Cap'n."

"And now that we are together on the Heron, I'll take that second toast."

“Aye… Let me see wot might be had aboard…”

The QuarterMaster left the Captain standing in the waist with a nod and headed aft down the passageway to the Wardroom of the fighting ship.

The stern windows were shattered at the top, allowing a breeze through that whistled softly, giving a slightly eerie feel to the cabin. Dorian set his pistols on the small table in a corner and righted a goblet. He went through the scattered papers that were on the deck, laying them alongside his pistols. He went through the cabinets, finding the logbook and other assorted items, the ship’s navigation instruments, a fine bottle of French cognac three quarters empty, and a small box of some weight. The heft of the box put a crease in Dorian’s brow, and his curiosity bade him to open it. He walked to the stern windows for better lighting and unlatched the hasp, slowly opening the container. There within was an oval or egg shaped object with a thick chain attached to one end. He gripped the chain and lifted the object out of the box and it twirled on the chain, a faint ticking coming from it. Setting the box aside, he laid the egg in his hand and turned it over. There was a hinge and latch. Using a fingernail he pried at the latch until it popped open. The ticking got louder and a flat face with numbers around the edge stared back at him.

“Hmmm… fancy bit fer Cap’n Stoneburrows ta have…”

From the center of the face a single arm extended, pointing to one of the numbers around the edge. He smiled and carefully shut the cover.

“Cap’n’ll like this… ‘is very own chronometer…..”

Taking the device in one hand and picking up the cognac and goblet in the other, he headed back onto the deck. As he got to William he held up the bottle and drinking vessel, allowing the Captain to relieve him of the burden. He kept one hand behind his back and took the bottle in hand, pulling the cork with his teeth and spit it on the deck. He splashed a quantity of the spirits into the goblet, raised the bottle to William and made a toast.

“Go raibh do ghloine lán go deo.

Go raibh láidir go breá

an dion thar do cheann.

Go raibh tú í Neamh,

leathúair os comhair

a bhfuil a fhíos ag an diabhal

atá tú bás.

Slainte!”*

He then tapped the bottle against William’s glass and took a pull. William tilted his vessel to his lips and did likewise. Dorian brought his other hand from behind his back and held it out the William.

“Here be something ye might find o’ interest…”

William cocked his brow and held out his hand. Dorian set the chronometer lightly in his palm….

*May your glass be ever full.

May the roof over your head

Be always strong.

May you be in heaven a half hour

Before the devil knows you’re dead.

To good health!

[William Brand]

"Weeeellll. Here's a pretty thing." he said through a wide smile, and indeed it was. So pretty in fact, that William set his glass aside to examine it with more careful hands. He was absorbed by it for a time as he turned it over and over in his hands. "Prizes within prizes."

This reminded him of other matters he had not yet had time to consider. The Maastricht and Heron were now officially prizes of war and both of them could be measured out in shares. The ship's articles dictated the distribution of these share, most of which were assigned by rank and file, but some lots fell to the lookouts and the boarders for bravery and forthright attention to their duties.

"Mister Lasseter, remind me again, to which man goes the reward of first sighting the Maastricht?"

[Dorian Lasseter]

Mister Lasseter took a moment to reflect, passing a hand down his face to bring back the memories of so many hours ago.

“ Ahhh… I do believe that would be… Young Mister McGinty… He ‘ad me join ‘im in the maintop…”

Satisfied he had remembered correctly he slowly nodded and took a second small drink of the bottle.

[William Brand]

"Ahh, McGinty. Aye. And if memory serves, Miss Tribbiani had the second sighting." William said, looking towards the 'Dog's fore top. "Let it be remembered then. McGinty shall choose first from among the pistols or small arms of the fluyt, and Miss Tribbiani, the Heron."

Miss Lasseter nodded, already refreshing the Captain's glass.

"McGinty might have a pistol to rival that of Ciaran's, bought before the mast." William said, still admiring the timepiece, then he looked at the Quartermaster and asked another question. "What man or woman first crossed over to the Maastricht?"