The Watch Dog

[Dorian Lasseter]

Village of Fort Royal

Main street

As Captain Lasseter stood leaning against the tavern front, he watched as the street hawkers and other vendors plied their wares. Some spoke in such rapid French he barely understood a word. The man at the fruit cart accosted each and every person who came within a fathom of him, actually taking several by the elbow and steering them over. There was a man walking up and down the street wearing three or four hats, piled atop each other on his head. He had a staff off of which some shoes hung, along with at least two worn frock coats. Round his waist were two belts holding a couple hangers slipped through. Dorian thought he looked slightly ridiculous, but he carried his wares everywhere he went. He had some competition from another vendor selling very much the same, however her stall had much more to choose from. At one point a scuffle occurred as a young man tried to compare an item from the hawker with a similar one in the woman’s stall. The result was a ripped shirt that the woman had, making her shriek at both the young man and the Hawker. All commerce in the area stopped and the crowd gawked at the sight. Dorian watched as the shrieking woman began to plead her case to the crowd, but his eyes caught some other movement in the crowd. Some urchins were winding their way through the throng, but not just to get by. Ah, there a coin purse and there a pair of fine gloves. Small stealthy hands were gaining wealth from the onlookers. Soon enough, a trio of soldiers came through, dispersing the crowd and making their way to the center of the commotion. As the soldiers were now there, the woman pleaded her case to them, accosting the young man and Hawker yet again. Dorian watched it play out, yet kept his wits about him, continuing to watch those in his close proximity. Some coin was exchanged for the torn shirt, the Hawker was sent on his way and the young man scurried off quickly.

[Alder]

She stood at a distance from him, but was nonetheless a remarkably compelling figure. Her face glowed with a caressing smile in his general direction though Alder was uncertain it was intended for him. A lass of what must be a decade his junior, he surmised. How gentle she appeared alongside the brusque companions.

He did not recall her name, but was sure she had mentioned it when she appeared like a specter to report of his work to the Captain. Alder recalled the plucky courage in her address of him; an outsider aboard the Watch Dog. He rose from his works; somewhat annoyed at the melodic feminine interruption of the voice calling his name, and towering over her petite form. His heated gaze abruptly mellowed as he paused, transfixed by the forest of greens and amber in her eyes.

Alder had never been gifted with the recall of names in person or even in text. A keener memory of facts and faces was not to be found, but of names he was sorely inept. Although a God fearing man, he liked to muse that this misappropriation of memory resulted from repeated encounters of the veritable horde of humanity with each incarnation. Yet this encounter, with the hazel-eyed lass, seemed matchless.

Alder still did not consider this consortium aboard a vessel prudent. Even for the sake of contributions to work alone, the shared company of the sexed would be fraught with challenge. How could one, not even to some degree, shield oneself from sins of the carnal mind alone? He recounted back to his last act of penance in the chapel of his forefather. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned…” he fought; as he spoke to keep the works from tripped like meaningless, rote babble. Above all, Alder sought a life of grace, no other was worth living.

He regained his place in time, but not his composure. Alder struggled with his thoughts of the impending respite ashore and his desire for camaraderie, the prospect of which was now so feverishly enticing him.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Village of Fort Royal

Main Street

Life passed by Captain Lasseter as he smoked his pipe, soon the tobacco burned out, so he tapped it out on a window ledge and when it was cool enough put it in his pocket. He remained leaning against the wall for a time longer, as the sun got lower in the sky. He had a notion to continue on his way, to continue with the purchases for the ships under his responsibility, but he was on shore leave, yet had so much that needed done. As he finally made a decision to begin again, several of the crew off the Watch Dog noisily made their way out of the tavern. Some of them were well in their cups, while others were only tipsy. The jolly rabble made their way down the street, spreading minor chaos in their wake, and even a little coin. As he watched them go, Dorian removed his hat and wiped his brow, stopping on the scar on his forehead. He ran a finger up it, again reminding him of the blow that made it. He pushed his hat back on and pushed himself off the wall. He inquired in his poor French to one of the street vendors about where the nearest chandlery was. Thanking the man, he made his way in the direction given.

[William Brand]

July 28, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

William was still making rounds around the Watch Dog as the last of the Starboard Watch filled the shore-bound boat. William paused when he reached the new carpenter.

"Mister Wenge..."

"Sah!"

"Are you not assigned to the Starboard Watch?"

"Aye, Sah!" he returned, then added, "There is work to be done yet, Sah."

"Not in this failing light, Mister Wenge, and not while you are off duty." William fished in his pocket for a few coins and offered them to the carpenter. "Until you come into shares at some later time, you will take payment for your day's labor and go ashore in the boat."

It was an offer, favor and order all in one statement, and Alder was gracious enough not to argue the point, though William noted his reluctance with so much work left unfinished.

"Rest and Labor are the outermost arcs of the same pendulum, Mister Wenge."

The carpenter smiled at this. "Aye, Sah. Thank you, Sah."

Then he carried himself, the wages and the smile over the rail and down into the waiting boat.

~Larboard Watches on Duty~

[Silkie McDonough]

The remnants of the Watch Dogs Starboard watch made shore as the sun disappeared behind the hills; the shadows of the city were long with night approaching swiftly. Murin was inexplicably thrilled that the carpenter had boarded the shore bound craft just before it shoved off from the Dog. She made a conscious effort not to make note of his presence as they walked. Some of the watch stopped at the first pub; some looked for another recommended by crew returned to the Ship. Miss McDonough, Mister Bly, Monsieur Roche, and a few of the new recruits from the Maastricht and Heron found themselves at an inn where the aroma of the night’s meal was so enticing that Miss McDonough’s stomach would not allow her to pass, she had not eaten since early that morning. Maurice Roche, after reading board with the evenings fare displayed, could not object to the woman’s request.

They entered the modest establishment and gathered around two of the small tables. Candle and lantern light illuminated the dinning room flickering in the still warm breeze that flowed through the dinning room. Sitting between Mister Bly and Mister Roche Murin felt rather comfortable; she was getting to know the members of the crew and finding confidence in that comfort. At the far end of the other table she spied the new carpenter. What was it that set him apart in her mind? She then decided to set her mind against anything she might feel about the man. They worked together and to treat him differently than any other of the the crew could cause no end of problems. The small company seemed relaxed and rather reserved for a party that had not participated in city life for so long. Their presence drew only the curious attention of the other patrons. Their conversation was light interspersed with bouts of laughter. Roche tried to teach his companions how to pronounce the name of the inn. He had some success after much laughter from both the crew and many of the locals.

Ale and wine were liberally served to those gathered. Beef, chicken, swine, cheese …anything but fish! Mister Gage was a fine cook and his meals were a delight but something other than fish was ordered by all, most with the help of Monsieur Roche. The younger of the two serving wench’s, a teen, seemed to take a shining to Miss McDonough thinking her a lad. The men gathered, although each acted the gentleman, clearly appreciated the beauty of the older woman.

As the evening progressed, the crowd in the great room transformed from those dinning and having light conversation, to those of louder revelries; drinking, dancing and song. Musicians gathered in the corner and began playing concertina, fiddle and pipe. Tables were moved aside to open a dance floor. Murin found herself partnered often with one of the lads from the Dog, some danced well and others, well, they danced. Many of the other patrons thought it strange that the lad in the brown waistcoat would dance with the other sailors and their looks clearly reflected their displeasure until Murin sang a saucy little tune with the fiddler. The bar wenches oft found themselves on the dance floor and the tips for the lass’ at the end of the evening would show the gratitude of the sailors.

The fiddler again began a tune that Murin knew well, a tune born of her Celtic heritage. From their table her alto voice blended with the piper’s baritone and the harmonies rang clear. Audible conversation ceased as the words of a language, unknown to most, bounced lightly off the low ceiling wrapping itself around the audience. Next to the feeling of the wind in the sails little else could bring as much joy to Murin McDonough. This song in particular, one of love and love lost, was one she had often shared with her deceased betrothed Ayden. Although her heart ached with its utterance the memory of the moments shared with him on the skiff they rode on the waves so often together brought emotion to the song that language could not disguise. The tune ended, silence settled over the room. Eyes closed, Murin now let the tear that she had held back run down her cheek. A lone patron began to clap and others joined in, even the musicians found them selves moved to applaud.

The music began again, a reel, the crowd was on their feet once more. Nathan laid his hand on her shoulder, “Murin?” Suddenly returned to the inn she wiped the tear from her cheek like one would a smudge of dirt. Her smile returned, albeit a bit melancholy. “Aye Naten, m’fine.” Her face brightened with a smile, “Let'us dunce.” His face brightened in return for he welcomed any time spent close to the lass.

[Alder]

The small boy within Alder cringed at the whirling motion of the company on the open floor. The expectation to dance at a cotillion or other like affair was steeped in the morays of his social ranking. With some distain, he recalled the gangly girls, years his senior vying for the few lads in awkward training. Wrenched from the covey of his unfledged brethren, foot found misplaced foot, arms wrapped in stranglehold and legs grown long in adolescence possessed a mind and direction of their own. Alder endured the necessity of the humiliating exercise until an agile grace replaced his former ineptness and responsibilities had been met. The Wenge family would no more consider breaking a social pact than denying their faith and thus it was in this endeavor. This well scripted system had framed his life, once again giving pause to the speculation of his future.

The evening’s fair revealed much; his shipmates skills in dance or lack there of and likewise exceptional talents. Alder was moved by the glorious melody, though bewildered by the shrouded lament that clung to the nightingale’s cheek. He arose toward the opposite side of the tavern, drawn to console, though the maiden was whisked once again onto the floor. He resumed his place, heaved a contended sigh, and admired from a distance. How lithe was her step with her well matched partners. They shared time and place beyond the festivities of the moment. Their world seemed in order and at peace. The pleasure of the emerald-eyed lass was unmistakable. Alder mused as he caught the glance of the lass peeking furtively over the lads shoulder, scanning the room as if for a misplaced article. In that instant, he returned a hearty grin and hoisted his well appointed tankard in her honor.

[William Brand]

July 28, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

After four bells of First Watch

The Larboard crews had worked well, from failing light, into the darkness. Work was halted on many projects for the day, and while the quarter galley was nowhere near completion, the Ward Room still seemed improved for the work which had been accomplished so far.

William lingered in the small room at the table, comfortable among his many books and ledgers. He poured over numbers and tallies, making the occasional adjustment, so that the crew and the ship would benefit from the best allotment of shares. Some finances were shifted to the coffers to compensate for damages done to stores and materials.

A knock came at the door while he worked and Alan Woodington put his head in to inform the Captain that Tempest and Chanault were going ashore. William nodded, and not too surprised, for Tempest had her ways and her secrets to keep. She had often departed under shadow for destinations unknown.

"Very well, Mister Woodington. See that they have four rowers with them when they go, and remind the rowers not too linger." he said smiling.

"Might th' rowers find refreshment ere they return, Cap'n?" Alan inquired.

"Enough to see them back again." William replied, already returning to his work.

"Aye, Sah."

The door clicked shut on the latch and the Ward Room was returned to relative silence. Thoughts of Tempest turned William's mind to Le Requiem and he wondered that he had received no word from that quarter. He wondered if some business had made it impossible, and he drank a silent toast to Captain Fournier's health.

As if in answer to this, and with no small touch of omens, William heard a pitiful sound come up through the floorboards. He paused to listen, and for a time he heard nothing, but then again came a soft sound from one of the ship's cats.

William gathered up the many tomes and ledgers, setting them on the stern bench. He lifted the candles away. Then he folded back the hinged pieces of the Ward Room table until it was lifted forward and away from the trap doors which concealed the aft gunnery compartment. He lifted one of the large doors up to reveal Freki, the eight pound stern chaser. He peered down into the darkness, but saw nothing.

"Anubis...?" he asked, questioning the dark. "...Pandora?"

He was answered with nothing at first. Then he heard the soft, almost submissive call of the ship's British short-hair, Amenhotep.

"Amen, come up from there." William urged, using the softer 'Ahh-men' that he often used to call the cat. Not wishing to crawl down into the gunnery compartment by candlelight, he urged the cat several times. "Come on. Come here, Amen."

The cat merely mewed again, and then William heard the hurt of it. He made his way down into the hole and moved among the great guns, looking here and there for the fat, longanimous cat. He found Amenhotep in a recessed space in one corner of the compartment. There, the grey short-hair lay on his left side, looking powerless to move. Blood was smeared on his face and the tear duct of one eye oozed with the same stuff. Amen looked ghastly in this poor light and William scooped him up as gently as he could in the low space. He brought him up again into the Ward Room.

Then William stood a long time with the damaged animal, wondering what to do with him. He had heard the small boat row away in the relative silence, bearing Tempest and Chanault away, and he thought he might call the ship's doctor back, but then thought different of it. Instead, he lay the wounded animal aside and folded the trap door and table down again. Then he pillowed the cat on a folded shirt of his and wiped away the clotted blood with a wet cloth.

All the while Amen mewed, and it wounded William to see the cat this way. He was fond of Amenhotep, for the cat, while lazy past understanding, had been the preferred lap companion of many a sailor aboard ship. Even Lazarus, who himself had scolded the cats again and again for investigating his cooking, had liked the fat grey.

"How long have you lain in his state?" William asked the cat as he cleaned away the blood. "Were you among the wounded at battle these few days past?"

Amen mewed again and it was apparent that much damage had been done to him. He was now as he had been, listless, quiet, but now for reasons which implied some concussive blow. Perhaps the poor cat had been too near the quarter galley when it was stripped from the 'Dog by cannon fire. Perhaps he had escaped some crushing debris, only to languish in the dark.

Whatever had happened, Amenhotep slipped away in those few moments. His breath became labored until it came in long gasps and then even longer pauses. William stroked his side, and he was only once startled when the cat took another breath after so long a time, that William had given him up for dead. Then a few more labored breaths followed and he was gone.

William wept for the cat then, and felt both unashamed and stupid for doing so. These conflicting emotions made him shake his head, there in the half lit room.

"A pirate vagabond these eight years and now a school boy." William said aloud to no one, grateful that he had not called the doctor back to witness this unexplainable, yet perfectly understandable mourning. "Goodbye, Amen."

Five bells of First Watch

~Larboard Watches on Duty~

[Silkie McDonough]

Miss McDonough searched the crowd for the carpenter even as she danced with the others from the crew, saddened that he may have departed their company when she saw his seat occupied by another. As she furtively scanned the room over the lads shoulder she was rewarded by not only the sight of the man she sought but a handsome grin and tankard lifted to her.

Murin hugged herself with that moment as the night progressed, he had indeed noticed her. How she longed for him to ask her to dance. She could not ask the him, that would not be proper. "Proper!" she laughed at herself as the thought was forming. What need had she for the rules of society? Society would have her slaving for aristocrats who had no notion of hard work or what it was to struggle for ones daily bread! Proper indeed! Yet she did not venture to the man and ask. The lass had asked Nathan to dance but she saw him as a brother to her, they did not stand on ceremony. Still, it tugged uncomfortably at the corners of her mind that each member of the small group had asked her to dance at least once this evening, save the carpenter.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Village of Fort Royal

Merchant Street Chandlery

Captain Lasseter had made his way through the small town to the location given him. Upon entering the Chandlery, he was greeted warily by a boy, then left to himself as the lad ran off to seek out the proprietor. There were no others in the place that Dorian knew of, so he stood amongst the piles of items, occasionally picking up something and examining it before replacing it. Soon the sound of voices was heard and a middle aged man scurried after the lad. Greetings were passed between the men, and as luck would have it, he spoke passable English. They wandered through his store, the man yelling out to the young lad at the counter what Dorian requested and in what quantity along with the agreed upon price. Two hours had passed and all that was to be had from the man was on the books. Dorian followed him back to the counter where the cost was added up, along with a small fee for delivery. He had overextended what he had brought with him from the coffers, so he made up what he lacked from his own purse. The deal sealed, Dorian bid the Monsieur and his young lad a good night, asked where a good room might be had before exiting the establishment. Again a name and directions were given, another round of thanks and goodbyes. Dorian stepped into the streets and began his trek to find the Tourville Grande. Others were in the streets as well, the hour not being too late. Feeling safe enough, he pulled his stub pipe out and began to pack it with tobacco. This was a mistake he would live to regret. As his concentration was on the pipe and not his surroundings, he did not notice the two men grow silent as they approached. The next thing he knew, he was shoved into an alleyway between two warehouses. The pipe discarded, he drew his pistol and thumbed the dog, turning towards his adversaries. They were on him in an instant; he felt the muzzle of the pistol make contact as he pulled the trigger. The blast was muffled to a dull thump as it was discharged into the shoulder of the man. He sprawled to the side but did not make a noise as he fell into a heap. The second attacker was quick. He hit Dorian across the cheek with a cudgel causing stars of pain to float across his vision. Captain Lasseter stumbled back against a wall, keeping the man in front of him as he drew his sword. The man batted at him, almost causing Dorian to drop the weapon but his grip was sure. His vision was blurred a bit and he realized partly because he had blood in his eye. The man cursed at him in French and took a couple swings at Dorian, who easily fended them off, landing a couple light hits, enough to cause more curses to spew fourth form his assailant. Dorian felt his head begin to spin, he knew the blow across his cheek had been hard. If he did not do something soon, he feared his life would be forfeit. The man lunged as he rolled this over in is mind. He cleared his head instantly, just in time to dodge the cudgel, and strike it out of the man’s hand. As Dorian reversed the course of the blade, his attacker lunged at him, smashing all his weight into the captain’s chest, driving him hard against the wall. The man’s hands grabbed for Dorian’s throat. He did the one thing left to him that his mind could think of. Dorian smashed the pommel of his sword into the back of the man’s skull. It felt like minutes passed before the man crumpled to the ground. In a fit of final rage, Dorian speared the man in his chest, insuring his death. At this moment his strength failed him. His knees buckled and he dropped to the ground falling onto his side as his vision darkened into the great void of nothingness…

[Silkie McDonough]

It was not as late as one may have thought judging by the appearance of the crew of the Watch Dog. One of the men from the Heron had already fallen asleep in a chair, his head resting in crossed arms on the table before him. Others conversing quietly. Roche in the corner trying his best to charm a bar wench. Murin had not rested well the night before and was feeling the effects from the continuous excitement of the day. Tonight she would sleep in a bed. A bed made of better things than simple canvas. Perhaps the ticking would be stuffed with fresh straw! Earlier in the evening Monsieur Roche had helped her negotiate rent of a room for the night. It was a small room on the second floor. The price to sleep alone was dearer than sharing a room but she deemed it best while not protected by the unusual circumstances afforded women on the Watch Dog, to keep a proper distance from the men. She bade good night to those nearest her and left them behind.

As she passed through the crowd on her way to the stairs several of the patrons smiled murmuring unknown words to her, she would simply dip her head and smiled softly in return.

“Madame moselle!” The piper was moving quickly towards her. “Votre chant était beau!" He lifted her hand and bowed to lightly kissed the back of it. "C' était un plaisir d'harmoniser. Merci!”

The lass smiled, nodded her head and blinked. Clearly she had not understood him. He tried again in another language, the one they shared in song.

"Go hálainn amhránaíocht. I gcomhréir le! Eisean an ceol na deora aisti. Foirfe! Go raibh maith agat."

His dialect differed vastly from hers but she managed to decipher his meaning. Beautiful ...singing ...harmony! Tears in his eyes. ...perfect. Thank you. The girls face lit up. "Fáilte romhat, níl a bhuiochas ort. ba dheas uait sin píobaire"*

He then bowed low to her. She responded with a deep graceful curtsy before he left her and returned to his mates. She stood starring after him a light blush once again coloring her cheek.

*It was a pleasure. Thank you kind piper

[William Brand]

July 28, 1704 - Ville du Fort Royal

"Est-ce que vous êtes ivre?"

Captain Lasseter came awake from a very deep well of confusion. His head swam in a miasma of pain and lost time. The voice, coming at him now, was direct. The harshness of it cut across his temples. He felt a bit of a kick, perhaps from a boot.

"Est-ce que vous êtes ivre? Comprenez-vous?"

It took some time for Dorian to get his bearings and there was little about him which helped in this regard. He was armed, though for what reason he couldn't guess. His hair felt wet, and when he put his hand to his face it came away sticky with blood. A man was bent over him, pressing the light from an open shuttered lantern into his face. There was an interchange between the lurking man and another which Dorian could not make out past the light. They used words like "Magistrat" and "criminel".

"Il me...faut un...docteur." Dorian attempted, hoping this request might buy him some immediate empathy and assistance. It came out too quiet and not a little slurred.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est? Qu'est-ce que vous avez dit?" the man returned, louder than necessary.

"L'anglais..." said the other unseen man.

"Êtes-vous anglais ?"

Dorian seemed unsure for a moment how to answer. It wasn't the situation exactly. It was his mind, which was speaking to him as if a thing removed. His thoughts were surfacing from a very muddy place in the back of his head. What little French he had mastered over the years was returning to him with ease, but his native language suddenly seemed lost to him altogether. He just couldn't find his tongue, but for a little français.

'I've died and come back a Frenchmen...' he thought, and with this he found his tongue.

"Captain Lasseter." He managed.

"Capitaine L'asseteur." The man parroted, then added. "Vous avez tué ces hommes."

Dorian did not understand the man's words a moment, or whether or not they were meant as a question or accusation. He looked down at the strewn bodies of the two strangers and was for a moment as surprised to find them there as the two men bent over him. Then that powder in his mind, which had seemed wet and worthless before, fired off his memory.

[Alder]

Glancing about the room like a herding sentinel scanning for errant strays, Alder was surprised at the realization of his surfacing sense of loyalty to this his new family. He recounted the inventory of humanity with which he had ventured upon these shores. Slumber had seized a weary few where they sat; others were still engaged in lively debate, a confident lad engaged in the prospect of lecherous pursuits. The cardinal object of Alder's distraction was steeped in the lanterns gentle glow. The image warmed his senses. Alder traced her path as she traversed the room toward the staircase. He surmised with some measure of relief that she would be resting this eve in the safe confines of the inn, duly noting that she was unaccompanied in her ascent. Mesmerized, his eyes followed the gentle sway of fabric against her roundness. The idyllic vision was abruptly quashed by the meddling interception of a performer who had accompanied her melody earlier. Her response to this interloper seemed initially perplexed, though when met by a kiss upon her hand turned ultimately responsive. Alder rocketed upright, sliding the chair back form the table with a scrape noticed only by the few at his side. No one was more astonished than Alder. He felt the warm flush rise beyond his cheeks and the raised brow of the gent beside him and returned again to his seat. Even in repose, he was aware of the still bristled hairs at the base of his neck. He struggled to nullify the significance of his reaction as paternal or brotherly, but was unconvincing even to himself. He scoped again a last glimpse of a well turned ankle as she began climbed the stairs.

Fingering his scant remaining coins and disenchanted, Alder gained the attention of the innkeeper and beckoned him closer. Patting the hammer that never left his side, the carpenter negotiated a barter to shim a loose banister in exchange for an evenings respite at the base of the same steps that carried the damsel aloft. With a handshake and a nod he set to the task. His labors timed to mesh with the thumping rhythm of the hand drum, the chore closed without evidence or the distraction of fellow patrons.

Preferring added measure, the capriciously grinning craftsman pried gently at the stair five removed from the base adding just enough play to carry and audible warning of passage. A minor adjustment would return the step to silence upon his departure. Alder was assured that no languor on his part would permit circumvent either by maiden or musical ne’er-do-well.

[Pew]

Nearing Ville du St. Louis

The carriage ride had lasted for several hours. The few hamlets that we passed, we spent very little time in our search for the vagabond rat. Waning daylight and the weight of our cups had begun bearing down on us. Luckily for us, Jean was not a stranger to the villagers on this part of the island and he was able to converse easily with many. Claude and Bill had also been able to at least give the description of Tawny to which several shaking heads returned.

The last hour or so was spent on the rough wagon, jostling down the rutted path towards the Fort proper. Claude had sat next to the driver while Bill and Jean chatted and dangled their legs over the back of the wagon. Tudor and I sat facing each other behind Claude. The lantern the driver had perched above us offered just enough light to see the young Captain's steward. I opened the satchel to reveal our documents. Giving the map to Claude, I had him ask the driver where he thought we were. The old man pointed to an open stretch of trail on the map near the town of St. Louis. Claude spoke to him with ease in his native dialect and gave the hand drawn map back to me. I adjusted one of the flour sacks that the driver had purchased in one of the small towns, and laid my head upon it. I rubbed my eyes and sat up briefly to see Jean and Tudor had done the same. Mister Flint, ever vigilant, stayed awake and leaned against the side of the carriage facing the road we had just travelled. Within minutes, much of the Watch Dog's search party ashore was sound asleep.

[Silkie McDonough]

Miss McDonough was met at the top of the stair by a short roundish woman, perhaps twice her age. The womans face was red and she breathed as if she had just run the stairs. The woman lead the way down the lit hall with a candle stick in hand talking to Murin in French as she went. She lit the candle from a sconce on the wall just before they reached the second door on the left then went to the door. Lifting the latch the woman smiled at Murin, continued to talk and pushed the door open into a dark narrow room. Stepping inside she went about a third of a way into the room and lit a candle that waited in a sconce above the wash stand to the right and again looked to Murin talking as if she understood. She then went to the far end of the room and placed the candlestick on the small table that sat beneath the window to the side of the small bed on the left. Checking the latch on the shutters was locked the woman gave Murin a grave look, her tone changing to a deeper warning. Her voice brightened again as she turned down the bed and returned to where she had left the lass just inside the door. Her voice deepened once more as she pointed out the latch on the inside of the door then shook her finger towards Miss McDonough. At that she exited the room pulling the door behind her. Murin slid the latch into place, the same voice spoke contentedly from outside followed by the surprisingly light footsteps of the round woman moving briskly away.

Turning away from the door Murin took in the tiny room. Several empty pegs stuck out of the wall a few feet in to her right, just before the wash stand. Folded linens sat neatly on the wash stand next to a pitcher and basin. A small bed several feet beyond the washstand against the opposite wall. And the shutters, closed tight for the night, filled the the remainder of the end wall.

She unbuttoned her waistcoat as she advanced and hung it on a peg. She sat on the bed and removed her shoes setting them on the floor at the foot of the bed. She then removed her socks and breeches, hung those followed by her shirt. She was thrilled to have a moment alone! To be able to wash from head to toe! She had not been afforded this opportunity since given the luxury of a bath her first day on the dog. She unwrapped her injured hand. Setting the bandage aside she inspected the healing wound. She lifted the pitcher and poured a third of the water into the basin delighted to find it tepid. She was thrilled to discovered a small chunk of perfumed soap laying on top of the folded linens. This opportunity to wash was worth the price of the room to her! When she had finished she poured the filthy water into the chamber pot poured another third of the water and washed again this time including her hair. Then using the final third of the water she rinsed. She dug her brush from the small sack she had been toting all day, sat on the edge of the bed and hanging her head ran it through her hair. Standing again she laid the brush on the night stand, pulled on the shirt again, extinguished the candle in the sconce headed to bed. She then plunged the room into darkness with a light puff of her breath and and crawled under the bed linens. The scent of fresh straw wrapped around her and the sounds of the street mingled with the music from the common room down stairs and sleep came easily.

[Dorian Lasseter]

"Capitaine L'asseteur…. Vous avez tué ces hommes."

The happenings that led up to this moment, the two Frenchmen and himself looking at the two corpses at their feet, replayed in his minds eye. At that moment a thought struck him…

“Monsieurs…. Est-ce que je suis accusé du meurtre ?”

His mind raced to find the right words.

“Ces hommes... m'ont attaqué... Je me suis défendu d'eux...”

The two men looked at Dorian, then at the bodies and spoke in hushed tones to each other. He caught barely a word, but it sounded as if they doubted his story. They watched as he slowly stood, feeling the aches and pains from the close combat.

“J'étais juste parti des fournisseurs, sur la rue du marché... que le propriétaire se rappellera...”

The Frenchmen studied the captain, torn and bloodied. He made no effort to escape or make other reparations for his actions. Again they whispered to one another. Finally the one with the lantern spoke directly to Dorian.

“Vous viendrez avec nous... que nous verrons si vous parlez la vérité. Vous armes si vous svp... Capitaine…”

Dorian looked at his sword and pistol. He slowly let them droop in his hands, raising them to the man.

“Aye… er… Oui, naturellement...”

The other man took up his bloodied weapons, tucking the pistol out of sight and putting the cutlass in hand. The man with the lantern swept his arm out and thusly Dorian bowed his head and began walking out into the thoroughfare…

[Pew]

Eric Franklin aboard the Watch Dog

Several more lanterns had been hung both within the cabin and the armoury connected to it. Eric stood and yawned as Luigi pounded the last crate together for the Heron. Eric sat back down and penned the remaining arms on the Watch Dog into the log. Many of the boxes layed in perfect rows in the Master's an Sergeant-at-arms' cabin. Several more spilled into the berth deck. Eric pulled the lanterns from the armoury and sat them about the cabin. Luigi sent one of the powder monkeys to go find a marine on duty to watch the crates unable to be locked in the cabin or the armoury.

Eric stood on the berth deck and stretched his back. He took a scribe and wrote "H" on those crates to be transferred to Captain Lasseter's ship.

"Tomorrow," he said as he patted the lids.

Eric waited for Luigi's return and craned his neck. Several louds pops were heard as the stiffness slowly made it's way from the Banshee's body. Eric collected his plate and tankard as Luigi mde his way down the ladder stairs. They both made their way to the galley for a tankard and hopefully some victuals that were left from Mister Gage's supper.

As the last morsels were tasted within the galley, Eric excused himself and made his way back to the cabin. Collecting his notes, he made his way topside to find the Captain.

Eric looked in the Ward Room's small windows and saw the Captain seated. He rapped gently on the door and waited for the Captain's reply.

[William Brand]

William was lost in thought about Thomas Fitch, the only other young life to be snuffed out as recently as the ship's cat, and just had time to wonder why the powder monkey's death had been easier to except than a bloody cat's, when a knock came at the door.

"Enter."

Eric Franklin came into the ward room by the door and stairs off of the quarterdeck, carrying hat in hand. He looked tired, but presentable. "Sah."

"Ah, Mister Franklin." William said, gesturing for him to come forward a little. Then he paused. "Mister Franklin...Why are you not ashore?"

"Beg pardon, Sah, but there were duties to attend to."

William gave him a reproachful look that had no real edge to it. "You and the Mister Wenge are cut from similar cloth. Work first. Rum later." William shook his head. "We are allies with the French now, Mister Franklin. We have a duty to uphold their sugar trade by imbibing in large quantities of rum ashore."

Eric smiled a little, but there was no hiding his fatigue. He was also eyeing the strange shrouded shape on the Ward Room table with a puzzled expression. It looked like a mound of unfinished food spread over with an old table cloth. William had found one of the two pieces of finery, and as the linen had been damaged in the Maastricht battle, he did not think the Steward would scold him for shrouding a deceased cat with it.

"Amenhotep."

"Sah?"

"Amen...the ship's ca..."

"Aye, Sah. Dead, Sah...?"

William nodded.

[Pew]

Eric looked at the feline lying in repose. Eric never did like cats. Granted, they patrolled in silence and ate the vermin below decks, he could never become attached to such an aloof animal.

"Sorry 'bout the cat sah."

William nodded and placed his chin in his hands looking much the part of young boy who had lost his first pet.

Eric was too tired to participate in the wake.

"I finished the log for the transfer of arms to the Heron sah," he began. "Luigi and I spent the evening crating those for Mister..errr...Captain Lasseter. We have a tally for those to go to him , and those to stay aboard here sah." Eric offered the log to the Captain, opening to the page as the book layed on the table. "The crates are ready t' go over sah. Permission to do so tomorrow, sah?" Eric paused as the Captain looked over the numbers. Preston's single letter was still stuffed in the rear of the log book. Eric noticed it all too late.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Dorian’s head throbbed where he had been hit with the cudgel. He had tried to wipe the caked blood from his eye to no avail. However long he had lain unconscious he did not know. Soon they arrived at the Chandlers form whence he had come earlier, just to find the door locked for the night. The man with the lantern banged loudly on the door several times as they waited for an answer. As he was banging for the fourth time, the door was jerked open and the proprietor stuck a pistol out the door and a scowl on his face.

“Quelle est la signification de ceci ?”

A moment later the man recognized the lantern bearer as a fellow merchant.

“Monsieur Jacques… l'heure est tardive... “

He then noticed Dorian standing there, bloodied and bruised.

“Capitaine Lasseter! Bon Dieu ! Que s'est produit ?”

Monsieur Jacques told the tale of finding the three men laying in the alley. He explained he went to the nearest tavern and found the Soldier who accompanied him back to the scene. There they discovered Dorian to be of the living and so were now here to see if the Capitaine’s story held water. The Chandler nodded throughout the telling and when they arrived at the here and now, he lowered the pistol.

“Je ne vois pas une raison de douter de l'histoire du capitaine... Nous nous sommes occupés des marchandises plus tôt et il a payé à l'avance...”

When he said the last part, he pointedly looked at Monsieur Jacques as if to make a point.

The merchant frowned, looked at the soldier, then back to the Chandler. He gave a snide look.

“Très bien... alors nous le laisserons dans votre charge...”

The Chandler narrowed his eyes, then held the door open.

“Capitaine Lasseter, Prise veneze votre facilité...”

[William Brand]

William examined the ledgers from end to end. He ran his finger down the page checking and nodding along the way. When he reached the letter, he set it aside with little notice, but for a passing question. "An old correspondence, Mister Franklin?"

Eric said nothing, and this more than anything else attracted William's attention. He raised his eyebrows and peered up from the lists of arms.

"Is something the matter?"

[Pew]

"No sah, I...." Eric didn't no what to say, or how to continue. For once, he was at a loss for words.

[William Brand]

July 29, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

Five bells of the Middle Watch

William's eyes fell on the letter and he reached for it, even as he eyed Eric up and down. Eric looked at once relieved an pensive. William unfolded the worn paper and read;

12 March 1704

Preston,

It pains me to deliver this to you in ink, but alas son, we know not where...

William folded it again and fixed Eric with a blank, but also questioning expression. He gave Eric a short nod and raised an eyebrow as if to say, "Well...?"

"Sah. It's a letter to Mister Pew from hi..."

William waved this part off. "If I wanted to know the contents myself, I would have read it, Mister Franklin. How did you come by it?"

"It was in Pres...Mister Pew's ledger. I knocked it to the floor. Quite by accident, sah."

"And did this private correspondence fall to the floor unfolded?" William returned, his tone flat.

"Sah. I...didn't know what it was...when..."

"When you began to read it." William finished for him. Eric nodded, and he looked at the moment like the idea of shore leave was sounding better and better to him with every passing second. "Have you read the entire contents of this letter, Mister Franklin?"

"Aye, sah." Eric said, and this time his reply was short and to the point. There was no point in denying it. His own uncertainty before had been answer enough to lay most of the matter before the Captain.

"Mister Pew takes you into his confidence, does he not?" William asked, turning back to the ledger.

"Aye, sah."

"I believe he would be quite pleased with the way you have handled the matter of the small arms in his absence."

Eric didn't seem to know where to go with this, so he simply replied, "Thank you, Sah."

William returned to the act of running his finger down the inked columns of the ledger. He let a silence fill the room. He continued to read for some time, taking each notation in turn until a full ten minutes or more had passed. Then he picked up the folded letter and placed it in the ledger like a bookmark, closing it with a soft thump. He picked it up and crossed to where Mister Franklin stood waiting.

"Everything seems to be in order. At first light, you will transport the small arms and Captain Lasseter's personal effects to the Heron. There, you will secure the arms in the Heron's armory, unless Captain Lasseter should wish to review the lists prior to storage. You may employ as many men and marines as you may need to accomplish this task before noon. Once this is accomplished, you have my leave to go ashore with the Larboard crews for your first full night and morning at Martinique."

"Aye, Sah."

William passed the ledger to Eric, but even when Eric took hold of it, William did not let go. Instead, he came a little closer to the Sergeant-at-Arms and said, almost in confidence, "A letter...wickedly conjured...once sent me and 300 plus souls on the path of outcasts. That poisonous publication made us patriots and then pirates in the same moment, forever cutting us Sons of England from the womb of that nation."

Eric swallowed and blinked.

"Are there treasons in this letter?"

"No, Sah."

"Does any matter within the letter threaten my person or anyone of us aboard these few ships?"

"No, Sah."

"Then it is of no consequence to me. Please see it returned to its place, and should the matter ever come up again, make it understood to Preston that I do not know its contents. I would not malign his privacy just to entertain my curiosity."

William's tone was not harsh. It was almost brotherly. This was almost worse than anger to Eric, for he felt then that he might enjoy a lash or two and wished he had never found the letter at all.

"I understand, Sah." he said quietly, but firmly.

"Thank you, Mister Franklin." William said, and he released the ledger so suddenly that Eric almost dropped it. The Captain turned and crossed back to the Ward Room table. "Mister Franklin, you have the quarterdeck. At the change of the next watch you may choose the most aptly rested officer to replace you there."

"Aye, Sah. Thank you, Sah."

"And see that you get some rest tonight. That which they call 'rest' ashore is very tiring."

Eric smiled a little then, and it was a genuine smile. "Yes, Sah. Rest in commotion."

William nodded and Eric snapped off a salute before taking his place up on the Holy Ground.

~Larboard Watches on Duty~

[Black Syren]

She lay in her hammock half asleep, her body relaxed from her earlier swim, her thoughts adrift as she rocked to and fro. Her package had arrived just as her shift had ended and she had horded it tearing open only the corner of the paper to take in the white gown, then slowly closing it and glancing about. Snores and muffled whispers from those nearest heard could be made out as they spoke of the taverns and the lovely lasses seen.

She turned her thoughts back to the church she had seen earlier in the day and she hoped to gain permission to attend mass and confession. Her thoughts turned to her murdered brother, Anthony. It was for him she would attend, to light a candle for his soul as she did whenever she could. Close to her brother she had been, had adored him when he had been killed before her she had lost her faith in God, had lost her faith in humanity.

But something within her soul would not let her shrivel and waste away, something within her burned brighter than the sun and eventually she met William. He had saved her from her step fathers hired men and had brought her to the WatchDog. It was he who had started her back to believing in others, then her shipmates. Aye if she was given a chance to attend mass a special prayer would be given for those who had restored her faith, in herself and in miracles.

She had seen much in a short amount of time and life and death was a blessing and a miracle and she felt the need to unburden her soul. The ship creaked as it swayed to and fro and still holding her parcel she drifted to sleep a smile upon her face as she dreamed of her brother, and of the promise of a new day.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Dorian looked at the Chandler a moment, his mind at the moment swam, and he could not comprehend the French spoken to him. The shopkeeper’s brow creased, then a look of recognition crossed his face.

“Capitaine Lasseter… please come… sit… take ease of yourself… come…”

Dorian blinked twice, then bowed his head.

“Ah… thankee, er… Merci… Merci Monsieur…”

He took several steps into the shop and the Chandler scurried ahead and brought forth a chair. Dorian lowered himself into it with a long sigh. As he looked up, the two men who found him had not followed. He realized his weapons remained in their keep.

“Messieurs, mes armes ?”

They stayed in the doorway a moment, then the one man stepped inside. He was dressed as a soldier. He drew the pistol from under his waistcoat and gathered it with the Captain’s cutlass. He walked to the counter and laid them there.

“Voici vos armes, ici elles resteront jusqu'à ce que je retourne avec mes supérieurs. Compris ?”

Dorian looked at the soldier, saw the serious look on his face. He bowed his head again.

“Oui…Compris…. Merci…”

The soldier gave a shallow bow and retreated through the door. Dorian touched his throbbing head with his hand.

“Gonna be a long night…. A long night…”

[Pew]

Fort Royal

The carriage came to an abrupt stop, waking those sleeping on the wagon's deck.

"St. Louis?" I yawned.

"Non, Fort Royal," replied the driver.

"Claude, I thought we're t' stop 'n St. Louis," I asked.

"The driver asked if we should stop and while you and Miss Smith were asleep, Bill and I figured to stay on until the Fort," Claude said.

"Very well. Not tha' I'm displeased, jus' surprised. Tell th' driver t' take 's t' th' docks." Claude nodded and began the discussion with the driver. Each of us in the carriage now sat upright as we began the trip to the docks. Bill and Jean decided to walk as both men wanted to stretch their legs after the long ride.

The town became more and more lively. Music was heard pouring from the many taverns and inns along the way. While we passed the Tanners, Miliners and Chandlers, the shops had been closed for several hours. Each of the crew had a particular interest in the varying shops, but all were too tired to even want to gaze through the windows.

I had the driver stop within eyesight of the docks. An inn, still with the lanterns lit outside, was our choice for well deserved rest. I handed Claude several coins for the driver's troubles and he was off to find the boy who was to have sailed the Samson here from Cul de Vache. Bill, always a man of detail, wanted to make sure the Samson did arrive, since he first hired the boy to sail it to the Fort. He did not want to be held responsible for the boarding axe as well as the jollywatt. Bill climbed into the back of the wagon for the short trip to the docks.

We made our way inside and met the innkeeper tending a small fire near the bar. I tried to explain that we needed three rooms for the night, but Claude interjected and quickly explained our situation.

"Ah oui, zee Watch Dog."

Claude haggled for the rooms. A price was agreed upon and I again handed several coins to the innkeeper.

"How do you know th' Watch Dog?" I asked the innkeeper.

Claude translated. The innkeeper smiled and spoke briefly. He said that not many ships come into port with a Dutch man-of-war in tow, a British sloop, and enough prisoners to fill their jails.

The inkeeper spoke in battered english.

"Vee know zee Watch Doog."

Jean smiled. "Your reputation precedes you Mister Pew."

"Aye, Jean, tha' 't does."

Three rooms were easily procured for us. The men divided themselves into pairs for the rooms, while Tudor was allowed the privacy of her own quarters. The rest most of us had taken on the trip had refreshed us enough to find a good tankard and plate of victuals. Jean wanted knew of a tavern down the road. He wanted to see if a friend was still the barkeep there. Claude and I agreed to follow, while Tudor wanted to wait for Bill. Jean scribbled directions and handed them to her. With a quick deposit of unecessary gear in our rooms, we met back in the main room to strike out for supper.