The Watch Dog

[Black Syren]

She struggled wildly, kicking out and making a connection causing loud curses to hiss by her ear. She was feeling dizzy from lack of air and went limp hoping to gain the upper hand. As she went limp her body fell forwards and her captor struggled to hold her upright and just when she thought freedom was well within her grasp, other hands began to rove her figure. She had to get the hand over her mouth and nose to move soon or she had no hope at all. Thoughts raced, plans made and discarded, and suddenly she was being tossed into a nearby stall, as she was dropped she began to roll reaching for the dagger strapped to her thigh. “Don’ le’ her away me lads..Ripe for the plucking be this one!” This time she could see faces and recognized two of them from earlier.

Before she could reach her dagger she tripped over the hem of her gown in the shifting hay and was again brought low the breath knocked from her. Balling her fist she swung as the first bloke straddled her hips and she could hear the crunch as she broke his nose and blood sprayed over her, over him. Jeers and comments rang out and her hands were seized and dragged over her head, she could feel hands upon her ankles moving under her skirt. Suddenly Jacques was there a shovel swinging at the head of the man at her ankles. As he fell away the one holding her hands hastily backed away holding out his hands not wishing any further part of the fun.

The man straddling her seemed unaware she was being rescued intent upon her ravishment and as she reached for her dagger she was soundly slapped, her lip splitting. Again did Jaqcues swing but before he could land the blow a rather large figure of a dog barreled through, growling, teeth bared as he leapt at the mans arm and latched on viciously swinging his head from side to side. Jacques taking in the dog quickly moved to help her up from beneath the pair fighting. The screams were loud coming from the man, but the yelp from the dog was louder. Somehow her knife had fallen into her attackers hands and the dog had taken the blade across his ribs.

Jacques relifted the shovel and swung hard and the sound of his skull cracking was sickening. “We have to hurry and leave, someone will have heard that. She made to leave but the pitiful whimper drew her back. It was the same pup from earlier, how could she leave it? Shaking she knelt to scoop the dog to her chest and Jacques placed a blanket about her to cover her torn and bloodied gown. His face angry in the dim light as he touched the wildly swelling bruise upon her cheek.

Soon they were out into the rain and making for the church. Jacques beating upon the door till the father unlocked the door and peered out blinking as he spied upon them. Recognizing Treasure and seeing her face he quickly pulled open the door and ushered them within. “Father we need a Doctor..The pup is injured.” Gesturing to Jacques he spoke rapidly and the only words she heard was Maeve.

[William Brand]

William retired to bed long before the shore parties from the 'Dog and Heron would ever slumber. He was content to lie under clean sheets in a private room, though he was used to a room which lulled to and fro, so it took him some time to relax. The rain had thinned outside and he listened to it and the occasional pop of the smoldering logs in the fireplace. He could hear music coming up through the floorboards, and though it was muted, he recognized the tune. Soon he was humming it in the near darkness of the room until sleep came upon him unawares.

Elsewhere on Martinique another member of the Maastricht crew slipped his mortal coil in the crowded darkness of the Fort Royal prison. The Dutch doctor rubbed his weary eyes as he closed the eyes of the deceased. He too hummed a song in the near darkness, but this one was a dirge and more forlorn than William's had been.

Still, he too fell asleep even as he thought that he would not.

[Dorian Lasseter]

He awoke several hours later when the ships’ cat had jumped onto the table to scrounge what was left on his plate. Reflexively he had drawn his pistol and was half way to cocking it when he realized where he was.

“Awww… ya wee devil… still ‘ungry eh? I nod off a moment an’ yer after me vittles… Well… best keep th’ Pooka happy lest his wrath be brought down upon me…”

He stood slowly and rubbed his neck as it was sore, the beginnings of a crick in it. Hanging his pistol back on his belt before reaching out to the white and black cat, scratching him between the ears and was rewarded with a trilling purr. He let the feline go back to finishing the meat left on his plate and walked around the small wardroom, the sound of the rain much fainter than it had been when he had nodded off. He creased his brow, wondering now how long he had nodded off for. Of course the movement of his brow cause some pain in his recently wounded temple. He hissed through his teeth and put a hand to his head, bowing slightly from the pain.

“I gotta stop doin’ tha’…”

The angry wound released it’s grip on him and he straightened up, took a breath and forced it out while straightening the front of his waistcoat. He cleared his throat and reached out for his hat, giving the Pooka a sidelong look as he did so. Taking his hat he carefully placed it on his crown. Walking to the door he opened it and headed out on deck into the dying storm to see what was to be seen in the cul-de-sac Royale.

[William Brand]

Basile Duflot de Mofras was the eldest son of his departed father. He had already been a man of twenty-one years when his father had died of yellow fever, a disease brought to Martinique by the slave trade. Basile, though considered young by some, had proved to be an able provider for the large family left behind by the departed family patriarch. He was the industrious boy now turned man that his father had made of him.

Basile walked the grounds of his family's modest estate. It was early yet and still dark, for Basile was up long before the sun. He was already walking the rows of buildings which dotted the new sugar plantation, just now blooming from investments across the sea. The property would soon blossom under Basile's control, and with far less suffering in human commerce, for Basile did not favor slavery. Still, he was pragmatic and the plantation was obliged to maintain the use of some purchased men and women for awhile yet, and Basile mused on this as he entered one of the larger outbuildings on the property.

He was there for several minutes, pacing and thinking, and at first he noticed nothing amiss. The building was quiet, as he expected that it would be at this hour, but as he lingered, the mathematics in his head slowly gave over to something else. One moment he was calculating the income that his endeavors would bring and the next his skin was crawling with an alarming clarity that Basile himself could not understand. He had instincts to be sure, for he had used them wisely in many a financial matter over the last two years, but nothing quite like this had ever overcome him. The hair on his arms and neck seemed to stand on end as his skin goose-fleshed. He suddenly felt smaller than at any time in his life, including the time his father had slipped away in fever. He did not like the feeling one bit. Also, and Basile found this strange, he could swear that the odor of old cheese had crept into the place.

Then the silence of the place was broken by a sound not unlike wind followed by a thick and solitary thump, wet and deep. Basile looked down to see seven inches of curved metal protruding from his waistcoat just above his right breast. He dropped the lantern out of his hand and it almost sputtered and died, but didn't. He felt the end of the garden scythe jutting from his chest and turned to see who had assailed him, but could only make out the two shadows on the wall cast by the fallen lantern. One shadow was his and the other belonged to something else. Some tall and twisted thing.

'My negro Thomas has killed me.' he thought and he tried to say as much aloud, but it just came out abbreviated, sounding like 'Taw...Taw...Taw...' before he slumped over dead on the ground.

Tawny smiled at this, finding providence in the man's pronouncement as he plucked out the garden implement.

[Pew]

Dawn arrived and I found myself gradually rejoining the living. Out of the corner, I could see movement and then the shape moved to the door and closed it quietly. I sat up in bed quickly and focused on the sideboard. A large porcelain pitcher sat there with a small towel draped on top. My eye continued around the room and I saw my pistol and cutlass lying on a chair with my vest neatly folded behind. I rubbed my eyes and sat up.

The sun had just crested the hills outside the mansion sending sunlight streaming into my room. I stood and went to the pitcher and washed my face. Several pieces of fruit were placed on a platter close by. I tore into a breadfruit and wiped my face with the towel. Dressing and grabbing my weapons, I put them under my arm and closed the door behind me.

I had just reached the landing when Eric arrived at the bottom of the staircase.

“I was just coming to wake you,” he said with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

“I could surely use one o’ those,” I replied. “Sleep well?” I asked him and put my hand on his shoulder.

“Aye Preston, but ‘twas a bit difficult to fall asleep without the ‘Dog b’neath me.”

“Aye, but no complaints eh Eric?” He shook his head no and smiled.

We passed the main dining room and moved to the kitchen. Tomas and Jean were already dressed and well into their own mugs of coffee.

“Ahh, Mister Pew. How does zee morning find you?” Tomas questioned with his hand on his belly and a wide smile on his face.

“Smiling Tomas, smiling.” I told the cook. He smiled back and continued to create the wonderous smells wafting in the large kitchen.

Eric and I both took seats at the large stools nearest the window overlooking the rear cane fields of the home. Luc soon arrived and also took part in a mug of the black brew. Conversation and many words of gratitude passed around the group for last evening’s drinks and accommodations. The politics of the world soon made their way to the table and arguments again began where they had left off the evening prior. French, British, and Russian perspectives were tossed about and several times nearly came to a head. Suddenly I stood and broke into chorus Tomas’s song he butchered repeatedly during last night’s revelry. The argument halted and the group joined in causing Tomas to turn the same color of his Sangria. Then, and only then, did tensions subside and friendly banter return.

[William Brand]

July 30, 1704 - Martinique

Tawny's mischief that early morning was not ended with the ending of Monsieur de Mofras. Tawny was feeling bloody. He craved the need for it on his hands the same way some crave clean water, for a hatred had been planted in his otherwise unfeeling and unnatural heart. The Watch Dog had become his enemy, for he thought of the ship itself as one living thing filled with so many organs to pluck out, but having no way to revenge himself upon her, he took to stalking farmhouses and cottage yards looking for that temporary fare to slake his thirst.

It was a dangerous thing to be angry and Tawny understood this, for while it sharpened his resolve, it dulled his wits. He had tried now for two days not to become careless in emotion, hiding whenever he could and stealing only so much to survive and no more. Still, like an angry and wounded animal, he could not stave off the need to rend something in retribution for his pain. His whole body was worked with it and he suffered from his own ill-treated injuries, his ear being the least among them. Smells, unhealthy and boding of lost limbs, had crept into his flesh. He was under the shadow of a constant headache and his body felt weakened throughout. Anger had become the sauce he poured over all of this discomfort.

Now he stood over the fallen and unknown man whom he had cleaved so easily. The murder had been satisfying to him in the moment itself, but he knew that any lingering satisfaction would be gone very soon. He also knew that his wanton need to hurt someone had created an inevitable dilemma. The more he killed, the more he would be hunted, so he grabbed up the young, would be sugar baron and hid him under a nest of old straw and wood beside the outbuilding. He used little care in doing so, for he had a plan after a fashion and the discovery of the body was just a piece of it. With the man hidden, he took up the wicked, chosen weapon again and found his way to the slave quarters.

Here he discovered a shuttered window, left open to let in the night air, for the slave house was a long, low, suffocating place with little in the way of creature comforts. The slaves were bedded down on straw and mattresses made of leaves and old blankets. They lay in longs rows in one common room, and while their accommodations seemed sparse, they were treated well for a sugar laborers and left to sleep the nights away unguarded.

Tawny peered in at the window and found himself hovering over a slave girl of some eight or nine years who lay on the straw next to a larger man of similar features. Perhaps they were father and daughter. Perhaps they were siblings. Tawny hoped it was one or the other. He smiled and purred to himself they way the madd do in asylum corners. He set the cruel instrument of murder which had defeated Monsieur de Mofras next to the slumbering man, and with a skill known only to pickpockets and predators, he grabbed the girl up through the low window before she could utter any protest. With one hand clamped over her mouth and another about her panicked body, he slipped away into the dawning Martinique.

~Starboard Watches on Duty~

[Alder]

Shards of dawn pierced at eyes still clenched in slumber. In serene recollection, the repose Alder delighted at how harmoniously the starboard crew of The Watch Dog had toiled to complete their labors. Few tasks remained to set her on due course and himself again aboard The Heron. Though longing for the familiarity of the sleek vessel, his anxiousness to depart was tempered by a different sort of desire. Whirling images and melodies teased his senses. Alder repositioned himself with an exalted breath that rocked his powerful frame, one that exceeded the hammocks span even as his appetite for adventure aboard The Heron was exceeded by his need to serve. As he began to stir, Alder held fast the St. Joseph medal chained about his neck and in mystic guided supplication, mumbled the maxim carved atop the chest that held his tools Sapere aude, "Dare to be wise."

[Bloody Bill Flint]

Upon rising the next morning. Bill Flint set about the business of finding a replacement for the boarding axe lost to the waves during Tawny's escape. He found a smithy, by sound rather than advertisement for while his command of the French tongue would pass for an Acadian anywhere in New France his grasp of the written language was marginal at best. Upon entry of the shop he was greeted by a mountain of a man with arms like a pair of oaks, and a face half hidden by a beard.

" Bonjour a vous l'etranger " said the smith

" Et bon jour à vous aussi " replied Flint

" Mon nom est Hugh de Parralde, et je suis le maître de cette forge. Que vous amène-t-il à ma porte ? " was the next reply.

" Je suis dans le besoin d'une hache d'embarquement. Vous avoir à vendre ? "

Hugh cocked his massive head to one side detecting an accent neither native to the island, nor the old world.

" Je mendie le plus humblement votre pardon bon monsieur, mais vous êtes de Nouvelle France oui ? "

Somewhat taken aback and more than a little cranky after failing to locate Tawny, Bill snapped back "Does this change the price of our dealings Monsiuer !?"

He realized with a start that he had spoken in English. Which was not a problem as de Parralde answered him in the same tongue.

"Non Monsiuer, but although you have asked me for a sailor's axe I feel you may be more interested in this........

And with that he produced a tomahawk, not just any tomahawk but one that the Redlegs was intimately familiar with. Flint swallowed the rising lump of anger in his throat.

"Now where did you get that?"

The menace in Bill's voice went completely unheeded or perhaps was ignored by the smith.

"A trader that passed this way not long ago, if you are interested I will give you a good price"

Bill was sorely tempted to simply slay the man and take the tomahawk. But He was neither or murderer nor could the frenchman possibly understand its significance. After haggling they settled on payment and Bill left the forge in a dark mood. Out in the thoroughfare he came upon Peter Hurgronje and two other members of the Heron's crew whose names he presently could not bring to mind. The men invited him to join them in the nearest pub for a few last pints before returning to duty. At first he was moved to decline, but thought better of it. Perhaps the numbness of imbibing would grant temporary reprieve from his current troubles. So imbibe they did. After a few cups one of the crewmen, an irishman, was moved to song. He sang Garryowen the name of his home town in the emerald isle. Bill was familiar with the tune and joined in as did several other merchant sons of Eire who were in the pub. However none of the revelers present could know that some five score and seventy-two years hence this merry tune would be the last thing a yet unborn generation of Flint's and Hurgronje's would ever hear on this earth as they rode to their doom under the command of a mad irishman at a lonely place that would come to be called The Little Bighorn.

[Pew]

The day continued after breakfast with a walk around the grounds surrounding the mansion. Tomas pointed out many plants and trees that were native to the island and many more that had been imported.

In our wanderings about the property, Tomas gave us the brief history of the island's plantings and how the rumbullion came to be made. He told us that many of the local island’s plantations had merely been growing the cane for trade as sugar. As the planters fermented the sugar cane juice, now called tafia and drank it heartily, it left them with wretched headaches on the morrow. As Tomas continued, an errand boy each brought us a tankard of a very sweet yet strong concoction.

“Across zee zea in Pernambuco and Bahia, some of zee planters began to ferment zee molassez. While it waz very strong, they did not drink eet zemzelves, but gave it to zee laborers,” Tomas paused for a drink and bared his teeth as it slid down. “Zee best molasses was zet aside an reboiled, zen allowed to ferment. Eet was destilled once again, an zen became zee spirits we now enjoy. Rumbullion my fronz,” he raised his mug and toasted the spirit. “And to Pere’ Du Tertre,” he swilled from the cup again. Luc agreed, and drank his until it was almost empty. Eric and I stood quietly, waiting for his explanation of the man he mentioned. “Ah, you know not of zee Father of Martinique’s Rumbuillion, no?” Jean laughed as he had heard the story many, many times before in each of his visits to his brother. Eric tried to pronounce the man’s name, but had as many troubles as I, trying to get it correct.

“Père Du Tertre, was a missionary. He created zee first still forty-five ‘ears ago zee for combining zee rough syrup and zee foam from creating zee sugar.” Again he toasted the man, and this time we could agree. With a wipe of his chin, he pointed a finger at me, “If you go to zee monastery of St. Marie, ask for zee Père Jean-Baptiste Labat, he created zee drink before you now. “ Sweet and smooth, the drink tasted as the rum in a tavern, but deeper, stronger, similar to the cognac of last evening.

“This was wha’ we ‘ad last night?” I asked.

“Ah oui.” Tomas answered. “Père Labat created his rum similar to zat cognac, no?” We all nodded. “Do not let zee master know, eh? He will surely zerve me for dinner, should he find we not drink of heez own.” Tomas looked over his shoulder and looked back at us, and let out a belly laugh that startled several of the laborers. Each stood straight and several wiped their brow in the ever rising temperature of the day.

We continued down a narrow cart path until we reached a clearing overlooking the cane fields. Tomas waved his arms over the fields and continued, “Sevonty ‘ears ago zee island was founded for cotton and zee coffee bean. In zoes ‘ears eet was found zat ze sugar made zee coin faster and easier than zee others. Een 1650, zee Master’s father zold zee rumbullion for 2 shillings and six pence a gallon.” I nodded as did Eric, agreeing that that was a good price. Tomas noticed, “Ah oui, a good price indeed. Zee Master could make 30 pounds sterling a week with zee one still. We now ‘ave many more zan zat.” A devilish grin grew at the corners of the cook’s mouth, “many more.”

Tomas slowly walked down the path stopping to show us the various parts of the cane and how each plant began. We soon arrived at a clearing, with several workers tilling the soil. He told us that nearly three-thousand holes were dug for the plants on every acre. The filling of dirt and the careful eye kept on the plants throughout it’s young stages made for a chore of groups of workers alone. He ran his hand along the edges of one of the plants stopping at the young buds. “Zees is what we must keep and plant for zee next ‘arvest.”

He tucked the bud into his pocket and turned on his heels. “I ‘ave somezing for you gentlemen and your Capitaine.” Tomas clasped his hands behind his back and followed the small cart back up the path. He looked back and smiled, “gentlemen, c’ vous plait.”

[Black Syren]

Treasure had refused to leave and Maeve had not been found so the little priest had cleaned the pup who it was discovered not seriously wounded though would bear a scar. Still was a small pallet made and Treasure bundled with the pup and lay awake for a long time her face badly bruised and throbbing, her eye now black. A blanket, a clean one had been exchanged for the dirty one and finally she had slept.

But now twas dawn and as she sat up the pup whimpered in his sleep and she ran a hand over his malnourished body. She could not leave the pup, but would William take on the dog, already his paws were massive and with daily food he would be huge. She went to smile and felt her face pull and slowly sat up taking the blanket with her, her body was sore and she did not see the little priest but Jacques was sound asleep and had her things bundled beside him.

Rising quietly she crept over to Jacques, the lad was fine, taking her seamans bag she moved into the confessional and changed quickly shoving her torn dress deep within. Once more dressed as a Lad she stepped out to find Jacques awake and the pup sitting next to the confessional whining. Leaning down she rubbed his head “Argus, what am I to do with you? Eh?”

Looking to Jacques she spoke softly “I have to return to the WatchDog.’ He seemed to understand and rose as well then moved to take her seabag despite her protests and touched her cheek anger flaring in his eyes. Calling to Argus she took one last lingering look about and they left the small church to go back to the docks and wait upon the beach.

[Pew]

Plantation of Monsieur Lebeaux

We were led to the carriage house of Monsieur Lebeaux. The main doors had been opened, airing out the musty dampness. Lanterns were still lit within the stalls as the bright sunlight had not yet reached the windows used to illuminate the large building. A few laborers had begun to drag the carts to the stills to load the large hogsheads to be delivered to the wharf. Tomas waved us past the carriage house, down to the area where the men loaded the barrels for transport. Looking through the several sets of large doorways we could see the extensive group of carriages and wagons that the plantation used to transport their wares down to the wharf and the merchants themselves.

“Ah yes,” Tomas pronounced as he reached a carriage loaded full for delivery. Several hogsheads were loaded as well as several crates of freshly bottled rumbullion, Madeira and even a crate of cognac delivered from the monastery of St. Marie.

“Bringin’ ‘n th’ good stuff aye?” I said as I pulled a bottle from the crate.

Jean laughed as did Tomas. “We ‘ave ‘n agreement with zee monastery, “ Tomas winked. “We zend a couple of bottles to zem in trade for zome of zee cognac, zee rest goes to market, azz it were. “

“A busy you got ‘ere,” I said to the wagon driver as he tied down the rest of the load. He smiled.

“No, Monsieur Pew, zees eez not for market.” Tomas said. He put his arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Any zhip zat zhall ‘ave my brother aboard will need all zee rum zhe can get, eh?”

Eric looked at me and then at back to Tomas. “This ‘ere,” he patted on the wagon, “all goes to th’ Watch Dog?”, he questioned.

Tomas nodded slowly. “Ah oui, Mister Franklin.”

Smiles broadened across our faces. Handshakes and even a one arm clasp was delivered to the mansion’s keeper by both myself and Eric. Even Luc was excited at the notion that he would be arriving at his next station with a carriage full of free spirits.

“I must make a confession zhough,” Tomas paused. He wrung his hands together. “As you slept Mister Pew, I , well I must zay, I went through your zatchel.”

“Oh?”, I questioned, now confused between his hospitality and forwardness.

[Silkie McDonough]

Throughout the day yesterday Miss McDonough worked diligently at whatever task was assigned to her. Her mood remained bright and a song was always on her lips. That evening she was able to start the cutting of fabric for the Marines uniforms. Her hand was healing nicely but the surgeon wanted her to wait a few more days. Once again Murin counted the days since she was brought aboard the Watch Dog. It seemed ages since she had injured the hand. She marveled that her time on this ship had been so brief, for it seemed that this was the place she had always been. She felt both wise and naïve about life at aboard this vessel.

She would laugh to herself when she remembered her childish behavior at the milliner’s early yesterday where she met Jenny. How could she have been so close to tears over such a trivial matter as buying clothing? Embarrassed at the thought she wondered what had made her behave so? What had made Jenny behave so? The lovely young woman had shown not only kindness to the Irish lass but unusual respect for one of her station. Jenny was obviously a woman of privilege yet she showed genuine interest in Murin and her place on the Watch Dog. Murin knew that her lower social class was exceedingly clear not only by the poor clothing she wore but also by her common speech. Social class! Again Miss McDonough silently giggled as she envisioned herself in the new clothes of a woman whose station in ife was far above any that she had ever imagined herself owning. Beautiful fabrics used for the first time for her. To have the dress and stays made to her specific measurements and shoes that none had worn before her. Oh! She would nearly laugh aloud as she thought of herself dressed as a fine lady, fooling no one once she spoke. Ah, well she had no desire to fool anyone, she is who she is and that was enough for her.

The late evening was spent once again monopolizing the time of Mister Nathan Bly as they shared their separate tales of the morning and relived the prior night’s revelry until the candle in the lantern sputtered out and the two headed to their hammocks. Nathan had requested the name of the inn that Miss McDonough was to stay in but her ability to pronounce the name was nearly as poor as the directions she was able to give to its location. Finally she agreed to let him escort her tomorrow after noon but would not promise to join him after that.

Miss McDonough had plans to relax in a hot bath and dress as a lady. To have tea at the inn and enjoy many of the things that a woman of her station watched while waiting on those of the higher class as they enjoyed the slow pace of life. She would be sure to compensate those who tended her generously. Murin hoped that she would see Jenny again, she regretted not letting the lady know that and hoped she would find her way to the inn while the lass was enjoying her tea. On the way to the inn she would stop to buy some new combs for her hair, perhaps some ribbons and perfumed soap, heather if it was to be had.

She loved the scent of heather; it reminded her of better times, of walks with the man she had loved and lost so few years ago. Murin had learned to live with the grief she felt for the loss. She clung to the love they had shared. A huge man, Ayden O'Neil stood a good foot taller than her and she always felt safe with him, trusted him. She missed that the most. She missed trusting a man so much that she could give herself completely to him. Murin swallowed hard her hands rested on her abdomen, had the priest been there just two days earlier he would have served at her wedding and not her lovers funeral.

The sun was still low in the sky the day already bright, Miss McDonough squinted into the sunlight her eyes watering from the glare off the oceans surface.

[William Brand]

July 30, 1704 - Martinique

William woke late and decided that it was not late enough for his tastes and he went back to sleep. When he awoke again it was after nine of the morning and he walked across the room to the Southerly window which looked over the harbor. He stood their in a shirt and slops, stretching and arching as he yawned wide. He scratched his scalp and squinted into the morning light. The few clouds which remained from last night's brief storm lay here and there about an otherwise clear sky and the day promised to be a sticky one.

"Damn...there's a fine sight." he said aloud to himself as he spied the Watch Dog, Maastricht and Heron occupying their comfortable corner of the bay. He contemplated moving them nearer to one of the river inlets at the Eastern side of the Cul du Sac Royal, for he had heard that a good market village lay very near one of these tributaries.

Then he called for an attendant from his room door and ordered up some breakfast to his room. While he waited, he stripped off the shirt of the day before and stood in the breeze that came through the open window with his eyes shut, trying to choose what he would do next. He decided that some of his business might be done ashore with regards to shares once he had fetched the ledgers from the Watch Dog.

A polite knock came at the door and a lad of fifteen years brought in a tray of hot foods, all made fresh, and William sent him again with a nice round coin and instructions to find John McGinty.

Three bells of the Forenoon Watch

~Starboard Watches on Duty~

[Maeve O'Treasaigh]

She stirred to whispering voices around her. Sunlight poured through a window behind her head. Maeve blinked her heavy lids and took a moment to take in her unfamiliar surroundings. She was befuddled for a moment before her memory returned to her. Apparently, she had at last fallen asleep in the great chair beside Francois’ bed as she kept watch on him through the night. The two women whispering were Cindrellon and her mistress, Madelaine.

Maeve pushed herself up from the chair, and her belly rumbled with hunger. She stood there a moment, unsteady with sleep, as Madelaine and Cindrellon took sudden notice of her wakefulness.

“Mev!”, Madame LaRoche exclaimed, no longer bothering to whisper. She greeted the chirugeon with two kisses to the cheeks. Maeve returned the gesture.

After a moment’s discussion, she learned that breakfast was available for her anytime she wanted to eat. Madelaine then commented on how soundly her beautiful son was now sleeping. Maeve took several long moments to assess the situation and found that there was not much more she could do for him, other than to make sure that he had medicine to keep his pain at bay. She left the laudanum she’d brought for Francois, ate a delectable breakfast, and then insisted that she must away, but that she would come back to call on Francois.

With a full belly and many errands to accomplish, Maeve went on her way.

[Alder]

Hours succeeded hours as Alder lanced his mark through yet another of the dwindling tasks in restoring his transitory home. He glanced across the quilt of foam and water that buckled in the breeze and admired the Heron as it gently undulated with the incoming tide. Although some of the crew had joined the carpenter to serve the Captain and restore the Watch Dog to its glory, many were unfamiliar. Many presented a complication when attempting to communicate; owing to language or sophistication. Notwithstanding, he found great merit delving beyond manifestations to reveal the treasure cloistered within each being.

Alder recalled the servile souls who acquiesced their freedom in exchange for what little measure of stability his family’s manor house and its trappings brought their haggard lives. Some had come to flee genuine bondage while others came to offer their progeny an exodus from a repressive caste. Whatever the reason, the Wenge family received only those who would bear their weight and thus made every endeavor to not only lighted their burden but also to save their souls. The well lacquered pew reserved in their name gave credence to their victorious proselytization. Generally removed from such dogmatic impetus, the bonds Alder had forged with these individuals were by far the most challenging to abandon when he fledged the comfort of place and station and set out to sea.

Although his principle to serve was foremost, he longed for these familial bonds; not of birth, but of choice. Momentarily distracted, he reached into the sash wrapped at his waist to disclose an irritant scraping his skin and removed a remnant of the fronds he had ferreted away in his chambers. Alder grinned appraising the yielding pliability as he folded the fading greenery between his fingers. Bemused, he envisioned not only its eventual transformation, but also the anticipated delight in the glowing smile of its intended recipient.

[Dorian Lasseter]

As the dawn had risen and the day wore on, much had been accomplished aboard the Heron. Captain Lasseter had spoken to Boatswain Tucker about the goods brought aboard and they had retreated to the hold to inspect them. Loren Brant and Johan Stadtmeyer had assisted with opening some of the crates and barrels to reveal arms from the Watch Dog, nails, water barrel staves, spare canvas and lines, even food-stuff like flower and bacon.

The storm had passed leaving the air thick with moisture and now the sun was on the rise adding heat to the mix. The morning breeze has dropped to but a whisper and soon all those crew who were on duty had stripped off as much clothing as modesty would allow. If they were at sea the men would have stripped to their waist, but in port an amount of decorum was called for. Even the Captain had sent young Kalfkin to the wardroom with his waistcoat as it became too weighty and warm for him. Miss Moore had happily plied the crew with fresh water from the stores brought aboard last evening. Every man had drunk to bursting as the heat and humidity caused them to sweat every drop back out. Dorian had returned to the Wardroom to enter all the particulars into the logbook. He opened all the windows hoping to catch any slip of relief from the scant breeze. He even took his neckerchief and dowsed it in his basin and slightly wrung it out before placing it back round his neck to cool him. He came out on deck after a time and chuckled as he saw Harold Press wipe his brow, then draw his knife and stick it into the mast.* He smiled and considered doing that himself. Heading to the quarterdeck he nodded to the salute given by Mister Tucker and took up the ships glass. He swept it slowly around the port, pausing at each ship around them. He watched some ships boats glide across the bay, the men at the sweeps looked miserable. He continued his sweep of the bay when Mister Tucker let loose with a curse. Dorian gave him a look that asked what that was about and saw Tucker looking towards the deck. There at his feet was the big white and black feline. The Boatswain looked at the animal as if he’d never seen a cat before.

“Problem Mister Tucker?”

The Boatswain looked at the Captain sharply, then his visage took on a sheepish look.

“Serry, Cap’n… er… did ye bring this ‘ere ca’ aboard last eve?”

A smile crept across Dorian’s face before he answered.

“No… I did not… Tha’s a Pooka… an’ either he came aboard wi’ some o’ th’ goods… or he made ‘is own way aboard…”

The Boatswain mouthed the word ‘Pooka’ and appeared to not know the word. So Dorian continued.

“Don’ know what a pooka is, do ya?”

The Boatswain half shrugged and barely shook his head while eyeing the cat looking up at him from the deck, a mischievous look upon his face.

“A Pooka is a spirit o’ nature old n’ wise they be…. Keep ‘em happy an’ all is well.. cross ‘em ‘r anger ‘em… I pity you…”

Tucker shot a look at the Captain who’s facial expression told his he was serious. Cautiously he reached down and patted the feline on the head.

“Good kitty, er, Pooka…”

The animal began to purr and threw itself on the deck, rolling onto his back.

“Best scratch ‘is belly if ya know wot’s goode fer ya…”

Dorian was smiling now, but “Lucky Tuck” decided to follow the advice and knelt down to scratch the belly offered to him. Dorian went back to peering through the glass as he heard the purring grow louder and the Boatswain voice continuing to appease the spirit.

* sticking your knife into the main mast of a ship was said to bring up the wind in a becalmed sea...

[William Brand]

July 30, 1704 - Martinique

John McGinty was half awake already when the potboy for the inn knocked at the door of his room. The sound went through the door, the room and John's skull. He groaned, and in his discomfort he was moved to shout overly loud in return. This caused him some further agitation, and the boy who entered looked apologetic.

"Priez le pardon, monsieur...Capitaine..."

John was already nodding, despite the pain in his head. He waved a hand at the boy, gesturing for him to leave and close the door without another word, which the boy did. Then John remembered his guest from the night before and looked over to see that the other side of the bed was no longer occupied. He wondered how and when the house maid had made her silent departure. He then had the presence of mind to be certain that she had taken none of his belongings or coin. All was where he had stowed or dropped it amidst the night's revelry. Relieved to find nothing missing, he dressed and bathed his face at basin on the table. This caused him some irritation, for the mixture therein was actually only two parts water. The rest was alcohol and it stung his eyes a bit.

At first he just blinked and smarted, unable to find the proper words to voice his discomfort. He decided to use the first two that sprang to mind. "Damn and Hell!" He almost spilled backwards over a displaced chair. Then, mindful that he might suffer more personal injury if he did not collect himself, he stood a moment, neither moving nor speaking.

"Don't become a clown." he told himself, as he waited for the throbbing in his head to subside again. The pain went out like a tide and he blinked away the last of the sting in his eyes. "There."

He picked up his things and went out to face the Captain and the day.

. . .

William and John took breakfast together at ten of the morning, lingering over fresh baked biscuits, cooked ham and the finest cheese William had tasted in years. They talked little of business, but William took the opportunity to pry John with questions concerning all things below decks. He asked John to truthfully tell him how the Dutch sailors were settling in and how the men and women of the 'Dog were getting along. John answered many of the questions briefly and William thanked him for avoiding grand assumptions. They gossiped little, content to eat and keep the conversation simple.

The girl who had bedded the night with John served them fare all the while. She also served John with a look that promised an additional rendezvous or two. When breakfast was almost gone, and the girl began to clean up the tableware, John pressed a good sized coin into her hand and said, "For not robbin' a workin' sailor..."

William smiled at this, and took the last of the biscuits, though he was too full by half.

. . .

Later, they stood on the docks of the Cul du Sac Ryal and William let out an airy whistle, shaking his head at the humidity. His frock coat and waistcoat baked the breakfast within him for a second time and he said as such. John nodded at this and looked out over the heavy air which suffocated the harbor, fanning himself with his hat. Then they boarded Patricia with a dozen others bound for the 'Dog.

Between five and six bells of the Forenoon Watch

~Starboard Watches on Duty~

[Silkie McDonough]

Murin worked in anticipation of her time ashore putting the full energy of her excitement into the care of the wood as she worked the oil into the grain. The rich grain in the wood, the elegant lines and detailed carvings in the ward room was fitting to the place where officers meet to make plans, where women can be merry and become acquainted, the place where Captain Brand pondered over maps and treasure, made agreements that would change lives, and determine deaths. Miss McDonough, pulled a sleeve across her damp forehead and thought of the Captain with great admiration. The power he held, power he could bring down on any aboard but power that was wielded with a fair hand. In many ways Captain Brand reminded Murin of the noblemen that resided in Ballycastle. His proud bearing, his gentlemanly manners, his possession of such power, and his swift and mighty wrath. That was where the similarity ended. Captain Brand was a fair man and showed that he truly believed that all were created equal and that each should be given the chance to prove their skill in all endeavors. Miss McDonough admired the man for this. How could she show her gratitude for the saving of her life? How does one show appreciation to men the likes of Captain Lasseter who found her on the island then brought her aboard to Captain Brand who within days offered her an opportunity unlike any afforded her before. Yes, simply doing her best would show her gratitude but there was something more she wanted to do.

Murin’s focus again returned to the pleasant task before her. While working in the mansion at the Hodge Plantation she was usually content polishing the woodwork in the study. Here in the wardroom the new carpenter had made the necessary repairs with the woods at hand. They were of local trees and not the oak that was used in the remainder of the room but he blended the woods to compliment the color’s and the contrast of grain adding touches of new wood where needed, so well done that one would be hard pressed to say the new work had not been there all along. Murin ran her hand across the highly polished relief work smiling she admired the skill of the craftsman. The room grew still, was someone observing her? Her heartbeat quickened and she flushed thinking it might be the carpenter himself. By the time she worked up the courage to look no one was there. Perhaps it was wishful thinking.

Murin jumped as Nathan Bly stepped into the frame of the doorway, “Up to no good lady?”

“Wot?” Startled, she had not really heard him.

Nathan moved into the room. “It is nothing m'lady, just teasing you. Are you prepared to go ashore?"

"Nil yet lad, I've work to do an'd noon bell has not rung yet. Dere will be toi'm nough to gater wot I needs b'fore d'last boat's taken ashore."

"Murin," Nathan stepped so close that the warmth in the room closed in around them, their eyes locked. "I would very much like to share a meal with you in Martinique."

Murin's laughter cascaded from her lips as she returned to her work. "Natan, we supped just two evenin's ago with d'rest a'd'watch."

Mister Bly staggered back as if a fist had been jabbed into his stomach, how could she not understand the invitation? Maybe she knew his intent but was not interested. Was it not clear how much he enjoyed her company? Nothing could be clearer in his mind. Murin, Bill Flint and he had been near inseparable before Bill was sent to the Heron then to search for Tawny.

She added, "Now, be a dear will ya an ave d'lass wit d'fresh woter come round wit a refill fer mae will ya?"

"Mm" he grunted as he departed, perhaps it would be best not to seek her affections. She was, like him, an able semen, an equal. Yes he must set his mind against the thoughts of winning the lass's favor.

"Ya take such care o'mae lad, tis like mae broter Finn were here."

He didn't hear her comment as he argued with himself about the lass he could not stop thinking about.

[Pew]

Plantation of Monsieur Lebeaux

Tomas hung his head sheepishly, but continued, fairly steadfast in his resolve, " I must take it upon myzelf, to make sure zee men I take in are true to what zhey zay." I was taken aback by his honesty, "In your papers I have read zat your Captain az put upon zee tazk of finding zee zame man brother was looking for. Zat truth you told. You must understand Meester Pew zat it eez a delicate balance between zee frined and foe, and zat line can change at a moment's notice."

I did not know what to say. I had never been questioned in myduties and those that had, had not made the right choice. Now, I had to chose if I could trust Tomas as well as Jean.

"I c'n understand, how ye might feel 't necessary to watch y'r own back. A discussion could 'ave worked jus' 's well." I crossed my arms.

Tomas and Jean smiled. "Jean zaid you may take it zat way. Please Meester Pew, I meant no 'arm. With zee Master overzeas now, I 'ave many responzibilities of zee mansion. It is my 'ide, as you may zay."

Tomas stuck out his hand and I glanced at Eric. The color had dropped from his face and a sense of calm returned. I shook hands with Tomas, and he clasped his hand on my shoulder.

We spent the next hour of so collecting our weapons and goods brought to the manor house the night prior. Tomas had set a nice lunch with fresh lamb and fruit as well as a fortifying stew. Breads and cheese also gave us their fill as well as several tankards of Père Labat cognac with several bits of lime and sugar within.

As the meal passed, appreciation was shown through the proffering of coin, yet, Tomas would not hear of any payment. Eventually a deal was struck that if he ever needed a bit of help, as it were, that he could call on those crew of Watch Dog.

When the carriages approached the main entrance, we made our way to the wagons and stowed our gear aboard. The bells in the Church on the hill behind had begun to sound. Another handshake and we began our journey back to the wharf.

[William Brand]

July 30, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

Between six and seven bells of the Forenoon Watch

William arrived aboard the Watch Dog after six bells of the Forenoon Watch. He went immediately to the quarterdeck and assumed command of the frigate, taking over from the officer of the deck, Jim Warren. He gave the Coxswain his shares from the Ilex sale and dismissed him to prepare for rest ashore. Then he went to the Starboard rail and peered down over the side to see what work had been accomplished there.

Alder Wenge hung over the side on a line fixed with a sling and board. He was fitting new planking over the sawn beams of the quartergalley.

"What news, Mister Wenge?"

The carpenter looked up from the pendulum where he worked. He squinted into the overhead sun, shielding his face with a tanned arm. "Sah! This wound is almost closed up."

"We'll make a surgeon of you yet, Mister Wenge."

"Aye, sah." Alder smiled. "I shall have the head private again before I depart."

"Excellent, Mister Wenge. Fine work."

"Thank you, Sah."

William called up one of the powder monkeys to fetch the carpenter a dram from the galley. This was lowered over to Alder so that he might swing and drink his leisure without climbing up over the side.

William went down himself into the Ward Room. Here he found Murin hunched over, applying oil liberally into Alder's most recent repairs. Her legs were bared in the fashion of a working woman at washing clothes and she was barefoot. Her hair was drawn up from her neck in a similar working fashion and he smiled to think of her now, for she looked ruddier. Already since leaving La Blanquilla, she looked much improved, having gained weight and health again.

"And how is it with you, Miss McDonough?" he asked her as he stepped from the aft stairway. She started a bit, standing up at once. "Steady, lass. You ought not to be standing so suddenly in this heat."

"Aye, sah." She smiled a little and put a hand to her temple in a self conscious way that he didn't notice. He crossed to the Ward Room table and dropped his hat upon it. Then he stripped off his coat and dropped it over the arms of the chair there. He loosened the scarf at his neck and peered out the Ward Room windows into the lazy heat of the day.

"There is no air at all in here." he said aloud.

"No, sah." she returned. "Boiled dog f' supp'r."

William turned and looked at her with a spreading smile. "Oh I like that. Aye. I like that very much." he said, chuckling. "Boiled dog..." he chuckled again and was still chuckling when Nathan Bly came in with a bucket of sloshing water.

"Oh...beg pardon, sah!"

"Come in, come in, Mister Bly." William said, waving a hand and then taking the bucket from him. "A welcome sight, water." William fetched up a basin and thrice filed it from the dipper before handing it to Miss McDonough. "How is it with you, Mister Bly?" William said as he bathed his face in the basin.

"Well, sah." he replied quickly, then added. "...apart from the heat, sah."

William nodded, toweling off only a little of the water on his face. "I should like to be apart from the heat."

Nathan smiled. "Aye, sah. May I fetch you something from the galley, sah?"

"Please do, and fetch enough for Miss McDonough and yourself. I shall be on the quarterdeck." he said, stripping off his waistcoat. He plucked up his hat and a dipped a handkerchief at the bucket before going up again into the sun.

~Starboard watches on duty~

[Dorian Lasseter]

Captain Lasseter had finished inspecting the bay around his ship, and the two other ships he was in the know about. All was well as far as could be told. He had set the glass aside and walked the deck, greeting the handful of crew aboard, even lent a hand shifting some lines and inspecting the work done as of late. He was happy with the great guns, small they may be. He mused about outfitting the Cutter with larger guns, but even with their good luck with coin as of late it might be too costly. These guns would do well enough. Whiting had been given the task of lookout presently and sung out that Captain Brand was coming from shore. Dorian acknowledged that, and set about some other tasks below deck. He found himself in the ward room going through the logbook and other papers. He shuffled through a small pile several times not finding one thing he knew had been there earlier. His brow creased heavily and caused some pain to his wounded head, but not enough to bring a hand close to the wound. His concentration on finding the errant page did not allow him to feel it. He shuffled through everything on the table still not finding it. His fists balled up and relaxed several times. No breeze scattered the papers as there was no breeze. Then it hit him.

“Ohh… ho ho… ya pooka… where’d ye hide it?”

He calmed himself and began a thorough search of the room. He went as far as opening cabinets, looking under cushions, and even turning out his hammock, which he had forgotten to stow earlier. He finally found it stuck under the crate of candles, how it got there he first could not guess, then reminded himself.

“Ye tricky spirit… “

He smiled at that and added the errant page to the pile, gathered them into the front of the logbook and took one last glance at some numbers before closing them in. He went to his sea chest and unlocked it. Withdrew the smaller chest from inside and unlocked it as well. He counted out a large pile of specie and added it to the coin pouch lent to him by William, plus a portion into another small bag, to go back into the ships funds. Locking everything back up, he found his waistcoat and pulled it on, then had a second thought and shrugged it off, hanging it back up. He retrieved a small canvas bag, put all the pouches in it and even managed to fit the logbook in it as well. Heading back on deck he had Brocke and Press ready the jollywatt as he was heading to the Watch Dog to have a meeting with his superior.

[Pew]

Wharf of Fort Royal

The sun had risen in it's path high above the island. The oppressive humidity had created small patches of sweat in the small of my back. I removed the scarf from my head and wiped my brow.

Eric had chosen to nap on the rear of the first wagon and Luc remained on the driver's seat on the cart following. Jean and I walked in front of both as we entered the town again. The drivers paused as we passed a livery, so the horses may rest and drink on the final few minute journey to the docks.

Eric awoke as the wagon stopped. Luc stepped down from the second wagon and took the horses' bridle and led them to water. Jean and I met with Eric and Luc and told them we were going to continue to the wharf and send for the longboat to load the hogsheads aboard. Both driver's checkec their stowage and made sure the ropes were cinched tight for the trip down the slight hill.

Jean and I continued until we reached the docks.

We looked about and found the harbormaster's office yet again. Jean found the master himself and asked if there was some way to send a message to the Watch Dog. An errand boy was sent from a room above.

[William Brand]

July 30, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

Just after seven bells of the Forenoon Watch

"Cap'n Lasseter on approach off the Larboard Bow, sah." Jim Warren said, coming up from the ship's waist.

"Thank you, Mister Warren. Send word to all of the Starboard watches to assemble at the mast at the noon bell to receive shares before going ashore."

"Aye, sah."

"And please remind them to take a pistol ere they go ashore."

"Aye, Cap'n."

William went to the rail and watched the jollywatt on approach a moment before turning his glass towards that familiar French vessel which shared the Cul du Sac Royal with them and a half dozen other ships. He had a moment to wonder, and not for the first time, why no one had returned or sent word from that quarter. It perplexed him to no end.

"Why this silence...?" he whispered aloud to himself. Then he removed his hat and hailed the boat on approach. "How is it with you, Captain?"

~Starboard Watches on Duty~

[Dorian Lasseter]

Dorian was hailed by William as the small boat approached and he smiled as he replied.

“As well as can be Cap’n, And you?”

“Likewise Cap’n…!”

He bowed his head once and made a course adjustment.

“Vast pullin’ lads…”

The Jollywatt slide up against the hull of the Frigate and Brocke made fast to the main chains. Captain Lasseter stepped lightly off the sternsheets and onto the side ladder with the canvas bag in hand. Half way up a spell of dizziness hit him, causing him to cling un expectedly to the hull. He closed his eyes for a moment and froze in place til the spell had passed. Opening his eyes again, he looked about and continued up onto the deck as if nothing had happened.

“William… goode to see you back aboard... I brought o’er th’ ledger an’ all else… and, must repay ye now fer earlier…”

He pulled the one pouch that Captain Brand had given him on shore earlier as full as it was when exchanged.

[William Brand]

William received the heavy purse and stood a moment without saying anything. He watched Dorian's bearing, for he had noticed the man's pause up the ship's side and he did not hide they way he looked at Dorian's marred forehead. Dorian said nothing.

"Sah, you will take a meal, rest and a drink or two in the Ward Room." William said, gesturing to the passageway door. His tone brooked no arguments and Dorian made none, since his business lay therein.

They went by way of the passageway between the galley and the surgery and William had a chance to look in at the surgery door, where he found a much recovered Meg, a recovering and resigned Ajayi and an empty Surgeon's quarters. He gave Meg a smile and Ajayi a nod, before following Dorian into the Ward Room.