The Watch Dog

[William Brand]

July 29, 1704 - At Martinique

Six bells of the Mid Watch

French guards and a few late onlookers came to the Chandler more than once during the night to visit Captain Lasseter with questions. They were often the same questions which covered the same general details of the assault. Dorian's head cleared enough to be accurate, or at the very least, consistent on this points.

A magistrate was also fetched in short order to examine what, if anything, might be done about the assault and the consequent slayings. It was learned and proved that Captain Lasseter had been assaulted by the two men, for the idea that a stranger, and a Captain at that, would have hardly provoked a fight in the dark on an alien shore.

The Magistrate examined the fallen men and found that the first had dashed his head a little to hard and died in this state and the second had been done in by a stab wound that went clear through the man, depriving him of a working lung and his heart. Dorian's own injuries seemed adequate enough to satisfy the Magistrate on several points, and the man looked too tired to be anymore thorough than a cursory examination, so he informed the Englishman that he would see him for questioning at a more reasonable hour.

The Magistrates final words, in very passable English, were used in instructing the Chandler to "Fetch this man to a doctor."

"It is late..." the Chandler said weakly, and he was visited by a stern look from the Magistrate, who was more than aware of the lateness of the hour.

~Larboard Watches on Duty~

[Pew]

Eric Franklin

Eric nodded and closed the Ward Room door behind him. Feeling relieved of Preston's letter, but still tired from the day's work, Eric stood on the quarterdeck and watched the ships lanterns sway gently in the breeze. Fairly perturbed he had done Preston's job and still had to be on duty, Eric let out a long sigh. He looked towards the island of Martinique. The lights of the towns pocketing the hills looked like small groups of fireflys dancing about the shadows.

Eric walked down the stairway and strolled on the deck, grabbing onto shrouds and looking over board every so often. He stood in the waist and looked straight up at the main top. Watching the night sky, Eric saw a shooting star fly across the dark plane above him. He continued towards the bow pulling and pushing on the various rigging that kept the main top and fore top upright above his head.

He padded his hand down the cannon lining the larboard side and said the few "Good evening's" to those crew members who were still about on deck. Eric found two of the powder monkeys continuing to wrap the cordage on deck. Eric reached the bow and climbed the stairway to the forecastle deck. He put his foot on the gun'le as he sat on "Troubleshooter" and looked towards shore.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Market Street Chandlers

Village of Fort Royal

Once the Magistrate and company had left, the Chandler sent his son out to fetch a doctor that he knew of nearby. He wrote a note for the lad to carry, so the healer might bring the necessary supplies. Off the young man went into the night.

As Captain Lasseter touched the angry wound on his temple, something brushed the side of his leg. He looked down to see a white and black cat staring up at him. It blinked then proceeded to rub against his leg once more. Dorian smiled and reached down, scratching the feline on the head causing a loud purring to emanate from his chest. At that moment the Chandler returned with a bowl of water and a cloth.

“Ah… Merci Monsieur…”

Dorian took the bowl and cloth from the man, who bowed with a smile. He began to clean the caked blood from his eye. He looked up at the Frenchman a moment.

“Tis a fine cat ye ‘ave here…”

He gestured to beside himself. The Chandler furrowed his brow.

“Chat ? quel chat ?”

Dorian gestured again and reached down to touch the feline, but there was none. He looked down and around the chair he sat in to find the cat was nowhere to be seen. Looking back at the Frenchman with a confused look,

“There was a cat ‘ere…”

“Non Capitaine…”

The Chandler shrugged and walked into the back room. Not a moment later the cat was again rubbing the Captain’s leg and purring. Dorian heard a clinking of glass and a moment later the Frenchman was back holding a bottle and a glass, half full of an amber liquid.

“Monsiuer, this cat…”

He looked down and again, the cat had disappeared.

“There was a cat here, on my honour…”

The Frenchman gave a bemused smile.

“Capitaine… the blow to your head… I fear you see what is not there… “

He handed the glass to Dorian.

“This will help… “

Dorian took the glass, smiled a crooked smile and mumbled a ‘Merci’, then clinked the glass against the bottle held by the Chandler. He brought the glass to his mouth and the fine bouquet of whiskey filled his nose. He took a gil and rolled it around his palate, then slowly swallowed. The smokey liquid made its way down and began to warm him from the inside out.

“Ahhhh… Tha’s goode….”

“Bon….”

The Chandler smiled at Dorian and walked to the counter, leaving the bottle there. Dorian slowly finished the glass and went to sit it on the floor. There was the cat at his feet again. He bent down some and narrowed his eyes at the wee beast, then shook his finger at it. The cat sat up on its hindquarters and batted at the captain’s hand with both front paws.

“Why you little… yer a Pooka, ain’t ya?

The cat answered with a half purr, half meow and continued to bat at his finger waggling in the cat’s face. He chuckled and sat back, returning to the job of cleaning his face up.

[William Brand]

William did not note the hour when he retired, having been too heavily involved in one of several ledgers and the many notations within. He calculated until he couldn't do any math at all, for need of sleep. Then he retired to his small room off of the Ward Room only to lay awake in his hammock longer than expected.

He was so involved in the accounting of the 'Dog that he lay in his swaying hammock doing arithmetic aloud to himself for almost half an hour. His mind finally drifted to other things, including memories of San Miguel de Salinas and he was asleep in moments.

He wandered into comfortable old dreams of Almeria and Palma de Mallorca. He wandered streets he had walked a thousand times in a life before "The Fall", as he sometimes called it. His sleeping mind conjured up scenes of secret rendezvous and passions that seemed almost fabricated from pure fancy, though many of them were dreams based upon actual experience. They were beautiful dreams laced with a kind of unreality which dreamers only understand when they wake.

Tahirah played the staring role of the dream at first, before passing the role to her understudy Christine. From here, the dream was all reminders and might-have-beens until the entire volume of William's waking unconsciousness was filled with the memories of once tasted delights turned into years of dust.

When William awoke, he was alone in his room, and within a moment, the wine of sweet dreams turned to vinegar. William despised such dreams. They were a poisonous assault on an unsuspecting sleeper, and he hated his own memory for the assassin it played on his good mood. William Brand was not made up of regrets, nor would he have changed much of the course of his life, but he hated reminders which he could not control. It was times like this that he prayed for dreamless sleep or a pistol.

"Damn." was all he said aloud to the dark. Then, "Damn and damn."

He was another half an hour getting to sleep again, kept company by the frigate's murmurs and his own restless brain.

[William Brand]

July 29, 1704 - At Martinique

Just before Seven bells of Mid Watch

The Chandler's son walked from lamp to lamp in search of the doctor carrying the written note and the note of urgency given to him by his father. It was a cool night, but very comfortable, and despite the hour, he relished the imagined dangers and responsibility that went with the task given to him. He even imagined dodging his own assailants as he went, exaggerating his own valor in his young mind.

Despite the lateness of the night, some taverns were still sending out drunken choruses and a few hearty laughs mixed with poor music. Pierre-Louis smiled and even peered in at a few greasy windows to watch the secret world of adults at play.

A dog barked so suddenly on the boys heals that he jumped almost a full foot in the air before running off to the security of the next winking lamp. He was several minutes there catching his breath and laughing a little inside for his own surprise. He made a mental note to give the dog a small stone or a good kick come daylight.

After moving on again, his wandering feet finally brought him under the sign which bore the name Laurent Tramois and the paired titles of chirurgien and anatomiste. He knocked once, a little too quietly, and then again much harder. He waited a comfortable span of time, before knocking again and stepping back into the street. Only on his third knock did a solitary candle grace the window overhead. A very tired, disheveled looking man in his twilight years peered down and then opened the hinged pane.

"Qui est-il?" the tired surgeon asked, unable to see for age or sleep in the gloom.

"Monsieur, it's Pierre-Louis."

"Pierre-Louis...?" he returned, with no recognition whatsoever, then amended. "Ahhh, yes."

There was a long pause. It proved long enough that the doctor had to start the conversation again. "Why are you here? What is the hour?"

"You must pardon me, Monsieur, but it is very near four o'clock. We have an injured man at home."

"Dying...?" the doctor fired back, unhappy at the hour.

"I do not know, Monsieur. He has been struck upon the head."

"Awake...?" he said, delving a little more.

"Oui. And able to speak."

"Wealthy...?" the doctor returned in quick succession.

"Not poor, Monsieur. He is Captain of a ship."

"That means nothing." Tramois returned again. The two of them stood in silence awhile as the doctor ruminated and the boy waited. It was a long wait, for the doctor was not in the habit of mending brawlers or the patrons of accidents as small as this. He weighed the idea of easy money against a good night's sleep and his own bones sang him the promise of slumber until his mind was made up.

"There is a woman the next street over." He couldn't bring himself to add doctor, healer or any other title to the nameless title of woman. "She has some understanding of bandages. She needs coin more than me."

"Monsieur, my father..."

"Should be abed." the surgeon finished, using some terseness to keep himself from changing his own mind on the matter. "She accepts anyone."

Pierre-Louis, never the best at pressing any point, could make no further utterance before Laurent Tramois closed the window and put out the candle. Pierre-Louis held his ground a moment, wondering to himself about visiting a stranger and a woman at this hour. He was not a clever boy with girls and women made him feel awkward. Still, his errand would not allow him to return with nothing, and waking the surgeon a second time to ask for medicine seemed worse than anything waiting for him a street over, so he made is way to the unknown woman and her bandages.

~Larboard Watches on Duty~

[Maeve O'Treasaigh]

For a moment, she thought the pounding was just the sound of her heart in her ears, waking with a start. Maeve sat up in bed and listened for the cause of her sudden waking. There it was again….a somewhat timid but insistent knocking on the door of her shop downstairs. Unease took her then. It couldn’t be a good omen to have someone at such an hour.

Taking a quick moment to cross herself, Maeve pushed back the blankets and stood up woozily out of bed, the cobwebs of sleep still thick. She stubbed her toe on the bedpost as she made her way to the small fireplace and let out a harshly whispered Irish curse. Fetching up her solitary candlestick, she lit it with a thin sliver of wood that served as a match that she had set to some glowing embers. With the candle lit, Maeve made her way more confidently towards the top of the stairs, stopping to fetch her shawl and drape it around her slight shoulders before she padded down the stairs.

Again came the knocking, still timid, but somehow more insistent. She tried to get a peek at just who might be outside of her shop at this hour through the small window beside the door as she reached the bottom of the stairs. It was utterly dark outside.

“Qui est là ?”, Maeve called loudly as she crossed her small shop floor, reaching for a capital knife she had left out on the counter.

She was surprised to hear the voice of a young lad respond. His pale face suddenly appeared at her window as he said “Pardonnez-moi madame. Veuillez excuser le retard de l'heure, mais…”. The boy paused. Maeve, somewhat put-off and disarmed that there seemed to be a mere youth at her door, moved quickly to the window to see if the boy was alone. Her sudden appearance in the window seemed to alarm the boy and he stepped back several feet to a much more respectable distance. Keeping her knife in her left hand, she set down her candle on the counter to unlatch the door with her right and swung it open.

Rather than resume his speaking, the boy gawped for a moment and stammered. “I…..I….”. He seemed put off by her sudden appearance in a chemise and shawl and her loosed locks of fair hair.

“Good heavens lad! Whar’s yer lantern? Who would send ye out in such darkness without proper light?”, she asked quickly in her native Irish lilt, light though it was.

The boy suddenly seemed even more awkward. Finally he found his tongue. “Si vous ples….er….Please madame”, he managed in heavily accented English. “Me….My name is Pierre-Louise and I …er…was by my father sent Monsieur Sébastian Badeau, the Chandler”. The boy paused a moment, grimacing at his poor grammar and anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to another. “We……I……er……need un docteur. There is a capitaine in needing of your help”. The youth paused, looking askance at Maeve.

Maeve narrowed her eyes at the boy and decided it might put him as ease to try and converse in French. “Un capitaine que vous dites? Que s'est produit?”.

The boy suddenly began spilling a waterfall of French that ran together so quickly poor Maeve could only pull out what seemed to be the important key words such as “attacked”, “bleeding”, and “head”. His voice rose in pitch as he spoke, cracking slightly with the change of impending manhood. Even in the small light of her candle, she could see this add to his embarrassment. “Si vous ples madame….mon père dit que je dois apporter un docteur.”

Maeve was already nodding as she wondered for a moment to herself why the youth had not instead visited the doctor on the main street. No matter she thought, as she could use the business more than that misogynistic old codger anyway. She nodded at the youth. “Oui, Oui. Naturellement je viendrai. Veuillez attendre l'intérieur tandis que je recueille mes choses”. Maeve motioned for the boy to step inside. He seemed to visibly blanch, but obediently stepped inside as she moved out of the doorway to allow him in. His countenance became more ghostly still when he chanced to see the wicked amputation knife she had hidden in her left hand as she’d stood half hidden behind the door. Maeve immediately began moving around her tiny shop, hastily adding items into a small leather bag. Pierre-Louise watched her in silence as her slight figure darted here and there, looking for things he had no idea of. He gulped and stopped looking as he saw one too many sharp items go into her bag.

“How badly is he wounded? Can he speak? Is he conscious?”, she began asking the boy as she considered what more to bring. Pierre-Louis was quiet a moment and blinked several times, digesting her English words and attempting a response. “Er….oui madame…..the capitaine is awake and…..speaking. There is…..er….lots of blood?” He seemed unsure if this was the right response and waited for her reply, but Maeve merely said “M-hmm” as she made minor adjustments and additions to her bag of supplies.

Momentarily, she was done and asked the lad to wait a moment while she ran upstairs. Once in her room, Maeve hastily threw on a cloak over her chemise and shawl, more for modesty’s sake than for chill. Reaching under her bedside, she grabbed her hose and shoes, quickly slipped them on, and headed once more downstairs. Lighting a tiny lantern with her candle she handed the boy the lantern as she grabbed up her bag and capital knife once more.

“Je suis prêt. Portez-moi au capitaine”, she said. Pierre-Louis and the un-papered but skilled chrirugeon headed off into the darkness, but this time, not without proper light.

[Black Syren]

Coming awake slowly she yawned and stretched as much as the swaying hammock would allow then slowly rolled free of it. Her packages were placed in her sea chest and she rose rolling her shoulders which seemed tight, tense. Perhaps she had not slept as well as she should have but she could remember no dreams, only blissful darkness.

Moving up the ladders quietly she soon made her way on deck and shivered as the cold yet balmly winds caressed her tossing her long hair about her before she gathered it and hastily braided the mass then looked about for something to tie it with.

It was while she was looking that her gaze fell upon Eric sitting alone and staring out at sea. “Alone Sir? You should get some rest while you can.” Her voice was soft, careful to not disturb the others, and yet it was husky naturally so but still bearing the rasp of sleep upon it. Blue green eyes seemed brilliant in the moonlight, they sparkled like the shoals in the light of the moon, and yet they roved, constantly moving about her, wary and alert.

“Aye miss Tribbiani, I shall retire shortly, was enjoying the quiet of the night and the sea. Are you headed aloft?” he asked her to which she merely nodded her head. “tis still early sir but I could sleep no longer so I thought to head aloft.” She gave him a rare smile “I shall leave you alone Sir and bid you a good night for what remains of it.” Tugging at her forelock she turned and moved away weaving about those on duty and the piles of rope and what have you upon the decks before scrambling aloft. Unaware that Eric watched her as she moved along the deck and up to her post.

Once there she settled and yawned again and rubbed her palms along her thighs before looking out about her for the moon had lit up the night as bright as day and all too soon her eternal fight for the heavens would resume and she would be banquished to reside beneath the sea while the Sun reigned supreme. Leaning back against the mast she took in everything about her, below her, the ships quietly riding the waves as they were anchored nearby, some farther distant. The lone cry of a gull had her looking for him and not finding him returning to her view of the sea, and sleepy life. Still with Tawny somewhere still out there she would remain as vigilant as she could, Tawny was still a threat until he was found and hopefully justice would find him soon. Justice came to all, even when one least expected it.

[Pew]

Fort Royal Taverns

Jean, Claude and I continued up the main street in town. More than one brawl spilled from the ordinarys into the avenue. A sharp "crack" from a pistol report was heard in the not too far distance. My eyes widened a bit as Claude return the look. We approached a fairly quiet taven when suddenly from the door, two men rolled out, each grasping the others collar. Two quick blows to the face left the man on bottom unconcious.

Standing, the man drug the lifeless body to the alley and picked him up and threw him into a carriage.

"Still playing zee game, eh Luc?" Jean said to the man as he crossed his arms and smiled.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Market Street Chandlers

Village of Fort Royal

The cat purred and rubbed Dorian’s legs as he wiped the blood from his cheek and eye, yet every time The Chandler made an appearance, the animal would be gone. Every time this occurred, he would chuckle. Soon as the shopkeep would be away, the feline would return as if he had never left. Soon the bowl was full of blood tainted water, the cloth stained as well. He touched his head where the cudgel had left its mark and felt the raised edges of the gash, his fingertips coming away with fresh blood. Again his head swam. He sat back in the chair and took several deep breaths, hoping the room would stop spinning. When the feeling had subsided for the most part he closed his eyes but for a moment as the feeling intensified with his lids being drawn. Taking the cloth, he dowsed it in the water, gently rung it out and placed it across his forehead, hoping the coolness would bring him some ease.

[Maeve O'Treasaigh]

Pierre-Louis led Maeve hurriedly through the town, both of them casting furtive glances at every dark corner and alleyway they passed. Other than the still lively tavern scene, nothing and no one disturbed their progress to the Chandlers.

Finally, they reached their destination. Pierre-Louis turned to give her an anxious look she couldn't quite interpret just a moment before he opened the door to his father's business. Light from several lamps spilled through the doorway. The youth quickly stepped inside and Maeve followed, shutting the door beside her. Maeve stood quietly in the doorway as Pierre-Louis moved over to the man she assumed must be his father, who began questioning him in hushed tones. A seated man turned at the sound of their entrance, holding a bloodied rag to the left side of his face. His right eye blinked as he regarded her. The Chandler listened to his son as he confirmed her suspicion that the lad had indeed attempted to obtain the services of Laurent Tramois and how he was summarily dismissed and sent to this woman. He gestured to Maeve.

Upon being addressed, after a fashion, Maeve inclined her head. The Chandler stared at her uncertainly, but he seemed too tired to brook any arguments about her gender or qualifications. Without further hesitation, Maeve stepped forward with her bag to stand in front of her patient. The Chandler and his son bustled out of her way. Placing her bag down in front of the wounded man, Maeve regarded his hazel eyes for a moment before extending her right hand. "Hello. My nem is Maeve O'Treasaigh. I'm here ta fix you up. Are ya feelin' well enough ta tell me yer nem sir?"

The man nodded, albeit gingerly, and extended his hand to take hers. The was a slow smile on his face. "The nem is Dorian Lasseter, Cap'n of the Heron, just arrived in port". Maeve smiled, unexpectedly delighted.

"Ah! A fellow Irishman. How wonderful. And a capten too. Sems as though Martinique has given ya a rude greeten sar. Lemme have a look at ya now...". Maeve reached forward and assisted Mr. Lasseter in pulling away the rag from his face to assess the damage. He appeared to have a nasty split just above his left cheekbone at his temple. "Hmm....", was all she said as she bent down to his level and took his face between her small hands. Maeve gazed assessingly into his eyes, looking to see if his pupils seems the correct size. "How did ya come by such a lovely prize", she asked as she gently turned his head to the left, and then the right. The captain explained the attack, and then his subsequent blacking out. Maeve listened, looking grave, but not overly worried as she unapologetically ran her fingers into his hair and along his scalp to ascertain any further damage. There was likely to be a bump where he could have hit his head when he blacked out. She was right. Mr. Lasseter winced a bit as her fingers found the welt, hidden in the mass of his long brown hair.

Maeve removed her hands from his scalp and reached behind her to grab her lantern from the boy. She brought it up close to get a good look at the cut on his face. It was mean, it's appearance made worse by the apparent bruising, but it wasn't too deep. Holding the lantern in her left hand, Maeve reached for the bloodied cloth and then thought better of it and turned to the Chandler and his son. "It's not so bad", she said. "Would ya please fetch me a new bowl of boil't water and a few new rags please". The Chandler elbowed Pierre-Louis and the boy ran off to fetch the things she needed while he stared on.

"Ya seem to be on yer way to collectin' scars there Mr. Lasseter", Maeve said as she began rummaging through her small bag. The captain chuckled, although she suspected the pressure of laughter cost him a nice internal head throbbing. "I'm sorry ta say you'll be needin' some stitches, but the Chandler would be kind enough, I'm sure, ta lend ya a nice tall shot of something ta help ease the stingin'". Maeve turned to the Chandler and addressed him. "Monsieur, du rhum si vous ples", she asked quietly. The chrirugeon returned her attention to her patient, fully expecting her request to be complied with. "Looks like ya'v already bled enough, so I won't be bleedin' ya any further tonight", she said. The captain nodded slowly. "Thank ya Ms....er...". The captain looked a bit chagrined at forgetting her name. "Ms. O'Treasaigh", she said, a bit bemused.

The boy came back with the water and rags. Maeve made quick work of the stitches, and then applied a small poultice blister. She finished this off by wrapping a strip of cloth a few time around his head and tying it off. Satisfied with her work, Maeve stood up and regarded the handsome, weather-worn face. "You'll be needin' some sleep now Mr. Lasseter. Ya'v made a fine patient. Do ya have somewhere ta stay?"

[Dorian Lasseter]

The Surgeon whom was brought was good at her trade. She closed the wound in short order and treated all else she could find wrong with Captain Lasseter. He did well as she ran needle and thread through his skin, and felt such relief when she added the poultice to the wound. When she was done, she asked if he had a place to stay. He thought a moment before answering.

“Weeelll… I was on m’way ta th’ Tourville Grande, when I were attacked… Had a thought ta return ta m’ship… but no…. I believe if I c’n make my way to the inn, I’ll settle there…”

He began to stand, stopped and took a breath before straightening. He wavered a bit then steadied, he held up his hand as the Surgeon made to take hold of his arm. She still remained near as he took a couple steps towards the counter where his weapons lay. He got to the counter without a mishap. He took up his cutlass, looked at the dried blood encrusted on the blade, he was lost a moment in it, then came back to the here and now. He shoved it into its scabbard, grabbed up the pistol and hooked it onto his belt. Looking up to the Chandler, then down to his son, he smiled.

“Thankee…er… Merci beaucoup….. “

He then pulled his coin purse out of his pocket and drew out several gold coins… he gave two to the Chandler and one to his son. They tried to refuse but Dorian was insistent. He then turned to Ms. O’Treasaigh.

“And you, goode doctor… what is your fee? I will gladly pay it handsomely…”

[Maeve O'Treasaigh]

Maeve considered for a moment while packing up her supplies. “Well, I typically charge 54 livre’s fer something fairly simple such as thes”, she said simply. She refused to allow herself to look longingly at the gold coins that had been passed off to the Chandler and his son. Even if the man had money, she refused to gouge him the same way dear Dr. Tramois would be doing had he come in her place. After only a moment she added, “Oh, and though yer not much of an escort at the moment, might I be yers ‘til we reach the Inn? I havta walk past it on ma way home ennyways. I’d like ta make shore ya don’t go fallin’ down”.

[William Brand]

(entry moved below)

[Dorian Lasseter]

“Aye M’Lady Doctor…. I shall happily be your escort back ta yer business… but first I must settle my debt to you…”

He again opened his coin pouch, fished around for several coins. The glint of gold and silver shone through his fingers. He kept them in his hand, weighing them against what was left in the pouch. He then put the pouch away and held his closed hand out to the Irish woman.

“My thanks for your excellent work, Ma’am… I will not hear of it being too much… I have troubled ye out of yer home at an ungodly hour… Now, accept this and we shall head off, leave this fine Monsieur and his son to their rest.”

She held out her hand and was surprised at the weight of the coins. She knew that their was more than the amount she has asked, but how much more she would not know until later. She would not insult the man by counting it out in front of him. He stood waiting with his arm out. She gracefully took it and they bid a farewell to the Chandler and his son, making their way out into the night.

[William Brand]

The Chandler noticing the improved mood and the lingering generosity of Capitaine Lasseter, urged his son to follow them with a second lamp, and he spilled out the door into the night. He joined them not ten strides from the entrance and the three of them went in procession down the paved streets, enough company then to stave off any who might have threatened, though to be frank, most of the town was asleep by this hour.

When they reached the Tourville Grande, Captain Lasseter pressed another smaller coin into the boy's hand and sent him with assurance that he should return home post haste. Maeve saw him into the receiving company of a very tired looking kitchen boy who was set to watch the inn's door that night. He promised to see the wounded captain to a sufficient bed with a locked door and Maeve gave up her charge for the night.

"Wait...Miss...?" Dorian called after her, forgetting her name yet again.

"Ms. O'Treasaigh." she said again, unperturbed.

"Aye. Might you see a message to th' docks for me?"

She nodded and he delivered a short message about his arrival, purchases and subsequent assault. She assured him that the message would go down to the docks and waved off an additional offered coin.

So it was that they parted ways, Dorian to a grateful sleep, and Maeve to a grateful wakefulness, three coins heavier for half a night's sleep.

[Dorian Lasseter]

He was able to make his way with some assistance to a room where he took time to slowly remove his belongings and hang them. He realized now how bad he must have looked as his head wound had bled all down his left shirtsleeve. He made a mental note to buy a fresh shirt in the morning. Once removed of his garments he realized not only would he need a shirt, but he had no idea where his hat was. He shook his head and sighed, causing a slight bit of pain. He laid himself on his bed and closed his eyes. Barely a breath passed before he was sound asleep.

[Maeve O'Treasaigh]

Maeve headed home, dead tired but almost deliriously excited at her good fortune for what she’d thought had started out as a bad omen, not so unlike an event several months past. Worry gnawed at her again just then, but the weight of the coins she now carried found its way to the forefront of her attention. She reached her home, barely recounting the steps that brought her there. Once inside, she bolted the door and spilled the coins with an anxious heart on the counter. There were 3 Queen Ann guineas, 2 William the 3rd sovereigns, 2 crowns, a half crown, 2 schillings, and 6 pence.

Maeve was astounded. It was the equivalent of twice her asking price. This money could easily see her through the next 4 months if she was a bit frugal. She whispered a small prayer of thanks to St. Luke for her good fortune and resolved to wake as soon as her tired frame would allow her so that she might deliver the message for the good captain. With no small sense of relief, she rose up the stairs, blew out her lantern, and all but fell into bed, more tired and drained than she realized she’d been. The lass hadn’t even bothered to remove her cloak or shoes as blissful sleep claimed her.

[William Brand]

July 29, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

The eighth bell of the Morning Watch came and went and they were almost to the first bell of the Forenoon Watch when William made his way out into the sun. He was dressed in very simple attire when he gained the quarterdeck where he found Ciaran standing his first duty as officer of the deck.

"Good mornin', Sah!" Ciaran said warmly, snapping off a smart salute. "I trust you slept well, Sah."

"I slept...and didn't sleep...alone." William returned, already looking about the weatherdecks, and Ciaran almost smiled, but the lookout was quick to spot that the Captain might not have meant this to be humerous, so he squelched the smile at once. "Report."

"The Larboard crews have revolved out for sleep and duty in turn...all night, Sah. No disturbances to report, and no news from shore."

"Thank you, Mister Ciaran. I have the deck."

"Aye, Sah."

"Mister Ciaran."

The Larboard lookout turned on his heel. "Sah."

"Any word from Captain Lasseter?"

"No word, Sah."

William waved the man off with a nod and the captain was left alone on the quarterdeck for a time as he watched the crews at work. The amount of laborers about the frigate numbered very few, with the Larboard watches split aboard, but the 'Dog was in good hands. The rail amidships was already mended and a fresh coat of paint was being carefully applied by a nervous Jean Dorleac. With Alder gone ashore, Rummy was on the 'Dog applying her trade to the quartergalley and much of the crew was employed there. Petee Youngblood was still gone ashore with the Starboard crews and a few of the Apollo guns, so he would not return again with the others before noon, unless he had already sold those great guns ashore. There was no sign of Eric Franklin, having gone to bed for a long rest into the day, but many of the Larboard Marines were awake and laboring alongside the able seamen. Lazarus, vigilant as ever, was at the task of steaming up the galley with fish and meal cakes.

Already the morning was was warm, and the day promised to be warmer still. The Cul du Sac Royal was so still now that the air would probably be stifling by mid day. Not a single crew member was fitted for stockings or shoes in expectation of the day's heat. The only lookout aloft was Miss Tribbiani, as shoeless as the rest.

William went to the taffrails and drew out his spyglass to examine all that lay about them. The docks were wide awake with the morning commerce and many ships around them were taking on or hauling out their cargos. Having seen all that might be seen within the scope of the bay's limited horizon, William stood a long while in the sun with his eyes closed, trying to burn off the mood which had pervaded the night.

First Bell of the Forenoon Watch

~Larboard Watches on Duty~

[Red Cat Jenny]

Chataigne's hoofs kicked up bits of dirt still dampened by the morning dew... the soil just off the road leading from the plantation was rich and loamy..a product of years of cultivation and bounty put forth by the land which supported the now decade old trade of sugar, molasses and rum. Jenny Ashcombe oft took this less trod path, learned oddly enough from the children put in her charge when she was brought to to île de générosité. The Isle of Bounty. A fiting title for the sprawling and abundant collection of buildings hewn fron the stone of the Northern cliffs of Martinique by generations past. She rode sidesaddle untill just out of sight of her uncle's livlihood and then urging the chestnut horse to better than a trot, slung one leg over it's wide back and leaned in toward the animals neck, mindfull of low branches in the surrounding scrub. The wind played havoc with strands of long brown locks as she laughed at this brief freedom of moments alone..along the way to Cul De Sac Royal..

[Silkie McDonough]

The light was seeping in through the shutters in the small room when Miss McDonough woke. A yawn brought in a breath of straw from the mattress as she stretched from head to toe, a luxury achieved only on a flat bed. Stretching in a hammock could land you on the floor all too easily. She lay there, looking at the low ceiling above her thinking on last night, to dance and sing again and feel the joy of the music again! She had not had such a grand time since before she was exiled from her beloved Ireland. Her heart sank a bit with the memory of her family forever lost to her, she could never return. In the same instance she found herself happy that the Watch Dog had found her. She laughed to think her home had found her rather than the other way around. She was amazed at how quickly she had settled in. No, she did not have much of a routine and she was going to be hard pressed to accomplish any sewing until her hand was healed. She gasped, her hand, she had not rewrapped it the night before! She brought her hand before her face, the wound remained closed. She flexed the fingers a few times. She felt a stretchy hurt but the wound did not crack open.

The noises from the street below brought Murin to the here and now as she reached under the covers and scratched at her ankles. Tossing the covers aside and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed her feet landed on the cold of the wooden floor. The air in the room was warming and she wondered what the time was. Again she bent, scratched her ankle then stood and stretched allowing every muscle time to release. She padded over to the chamber pot and used that. Then she made way to the shuttered window, undid the lock and pushed the shutters open into the morning sun. Up here the smell of the city was a mix of pleasing morning aromas. Her stomach growled in a loud objection to being forgotten. Turning she walked to her clothing. Again her ankles itched. She put her foot up on the bed and looked at her left ankle. Little red welts surrounded both her ankles and up her calves. Bed bugs, she sighed. Taking the small linen for washing, soaked it in what was left of the rinse water from the night before, lathered it with the remnants of the soap chip and washed her ankles and feet. She then rewrapped her injured hand, dressed and headed for the common room for a bit to eat and to let the landlady know that the straw in the mattress needed to be changed out.

[Maeve O'Treasaigh]

The bright morning light that spilled through Maeve’s bedroom window was so bright it made her wake with a sneeze. Rubbing her nose and groaning at being woken in such an awful way for the second time today, the chirurgeon pushed herself up unhappily to a sitting position. Hunger pangs immediately gnawed at her. She squinted, looking out through the window, noting the approximate time of day and decided she’d better be on her way as a favor to Mr. Lasseter. She could rest more later. Maeve stood up out of bed, momentarily surprised to find shoes still on her feet and a cloak lying on the bed. She snorted and proceeded to dress quickly in more appropriate attire. Once dressed, she snatched up the letter and headed downstairs, through her shop, and into a tiny kitchen where she cut herself a nice portion of crusty bread and a thick slice of hard cheese to eat while she set out. Nearly forgetting about her mess of lazy curls, Maeve hastily braided it, threw on a bonnet and stepped out into the already warm morning air.

She wended her way downhill through the paved streets of St. Louis to the sunlit dock of the Cul du Sac Royal. She counted no less than a dozen ships in harbor, all magnificent in their own right. The docks bustled with the noise of early morning activity. Maeve was able to make out three unusual ships flying the colors of England, Spain, and France. She could also see that at least one of them had sustained some fairly serious damage as it presented a foreshortened foremast.

Maeve began asking dockworkers where she might find someone to take a message to a ship called the Watch Dog. There were many blank stares and shaking heads. She thought for a moment and decided to translate the ship's name into French. La Chein de garde. When she used this version of the name, the dock workers began pointing in the direction of a group of men who seemed to be loading several small boats with all manner of supplies. With a word of thanks, she moved on until she came to that particular bustle of activity.

“Excuse me”, she called out. “I’m lookin’ fer someone who can deliver a message to a Captain Brand of the Watch Dog”. She watched, hoping for a response of some kind.

[William Brand]

Alan Woodington looked up with a start. "Good, God!" he exclaimed, before he could stop himself. This created a hush among the many men employed at the frigate's small boats. Alan jumped up from the boat tied against the docks and rushed forward past the bales, barrels, staves, sailcloth, blocks, cables, and boxes all being loaded into boats bound for the 'Dog and Heron. The men there, three from the frigate and the rest from shore, watched his progress as he went. He marched right up to the inquiring woman and said, quite unabashedly, "Say that again..."

Maeve was quite taken aback, and had considered retreat from the rushing, armed man. He looked a little wild, but he smiled. He made a rolling gesture with his hand as if insisting that she repeat her request.

"I’m lookin’ fer someone...from th' Watch Dog...who might take a message to Captain Brand...”

"Wonderful." Alan returned. "Another Irish lass in as many weeks."

This made Maeve smile, for as he spoke, his London accent belied his origins.

"Alan Woodington. Larboard Marine of the frigate Watch Dog."

[Maeve O'Treasaigh]

“Aye…Mr. Woodington”, she said, a bit taken aback by his unabashed enthusiasm. She smiled a little then. “Jest a few ars ago, in the early marnin’, I was asked to dress some wounds that a Captain Lasseter sustenned from an attack by two roisters. I’ve stitched ‘im up an’ med sure he’s restin’ at an inn….the Tourville Grande. Et appears he dispatched his two armed attackers, but sustained a head wound.”

By this time, two more men had come to stand beside Mr. Woodington. Maeve trailed off for a moment. Alan, noticing the two decided to introduce them. “Pascal, Cobus…this is Miss…?”.

“Oh! Right. I never said ma nem. It’s Ms. O’Treasaigh. Pleased to make all of yer acquaintances”, she replied, and then paused, uncertain as to whether she should continue. Almost immediately, Alan motioned for her to continue.

“So…right…ennyways, he’s doin’ fine, restin’ at the Tourville Grande. He wanted to let Captain Brand know about these events, and also ta let him know that he’s accomplished the task of orderin' all needed supplies from the Chandler”.

[William Brand]

Alan nodded at this, gesturing to the many goods being ferried into the small boats. A paid gathering of dock workers was still passing down rope, nails, wooden bowls, cutlery, hammocks, and all manner of mixed items down into the boats which were sitting very low in the still morning waters.

"Cap'n Lasseter's goods began arriving just a little while back. We'll be crossing over presently and I'll deliver the message to Cap'n Brand."

One of the laborers employed among the French interrupted with a question and Pascal was forced to turn aside to see to a matter about supplies. Cobus joined him in translating and Alan smiled and explained. "Our interpreters."

"Ahhh." she replied.

"Has Cap'n Lasseter been abed long?"

"Twas four o'clock before we got 'em ta bed."

Alan raised an eyebrow at this, though he meant nothing by it. He looked up towards town and seemed to spend the next moment or two in thought. He twice turned to look out towards the three ships and back again.

"I should see these boats back to the 'Dog. Will you come again to the docks in an hour's time?"

She didn't know what to say to this and he was quick to explain his question. "I should like to be shown the way to the...Torvel Grand?"

[Maeve O'Treasaigh]

Maeve smiled in understanding.

"Of course Mr. Woodington. A'll be back here en an ars time."

Maeve inclined her head and departed, making her way through the docks and back into town to see a grocer about purchasing a supply of food to be delivered to her shop later that evening.