Golden Age of Piracy - Stranded in Antigua

[Captain Will Townsend]

Smoke dominated the view. The bitter taste of it thick on his tongue. He was vaguely aware of the blood running down his brow as he barked the order to fire at ready; equally aware of the shock and recoil of the great gun beside him, loosing its heavy shot. Around him, wounded and not hurried about, preparing to sponge the guns and ready them for the next shots, the goal being to get out another one before the two ships came together and boarding was unavoidable. He made his way to the quarterdeck to better get a view of the maneuvers of the French sloop Revanche, his rolling gait easily compensating for the pitching and rolling of the ship as it moved in time to keep her broadside aimed at the enemy's hull. Out came the glass, and he could see the French captain looking back at him. Most likely thinking the same thing he was...

"Sir, we're ready for combat, sir." Came the shout from the bosun over the din of the battle. He gave a distracted nod, his glass still concentrated on the sloop opposite his own small lugger. A sloop was a coastal ship made for reconnaissance and battle, whereas his own ship (While easily faster) was nothing more than a converted merchantman. His only hope was to close in and board her.

More shots rocking the ship, the small draught of the lugger making a simultaneous broadside likely to capsize her. He put away the glass and motioned to James Milan, his pilot.

"Bring her in hard, Mr Milan." He barked, again over the noise. "We want her yard-arm to yard-arm." This proved the difficult point, for though the wind favored his ship, the Dante, the sloop was more maneuverable in the bay. The battle for Nevis was not solely between these two opponents; more than a dozen British ships had struck out to attack and seize the former British colony from the French, squaring off against maybe fifteen defending ships, mostly moored. The element of surprise had been on Admiral Gates' side, and the battle would likely be in their favor. William had only to play his part.

As a first lieutenant aboard the Dante, he had assumed command when Captain Daynes was struck dead in the first salvo. It was a hasty promotion of sorts, but he was well liked by the crew and they carried on heroically. Daynes had been considered a bit of a martinet, so not many stopped to mourn his loss. The Revanche closed to nearly musket range, and the boson's mates began tossing their hooks, trying to snag her. Guns thundered, slower now since the return fire had been surprisingly aimed at the gun-deck. Most French ships attacked rigging, so this was a new approach which of course only delayed the inevitable. The boarding party crowded amidships, hungry as though a whole load of Spanish gold lined the Revanche's deck. A few minutes more and the attack had begun in earnest, the ships coming together in an unholy union of chaos as his men began to board. Of course, the French crew reacted in kind, bracing pikes and spraying the boarding party with withering musket shot.

His own navy saber was out and a primal shout in the air from all quarters as he joined the boarding party, Lt Milan coming up on his left, an unconscious recognition of the fact that Milan was left handed and thus needed the room to swing. More gunfire and shouts as the two crews clashed together, horrid wounds inflicted within the first few seconds. His saber came down, batting aside a French sailor's pike, and the second blow cleft his head. Ignoring the crimson spray from the strike, William dodged to the right, avoiding another clumsy pike jab and returning with a left-handed punch followed by a knuckle-guard punch from his saber. The quick combination dropped the sailor, leaving him senseless. But more were ready to take his place. He cried out and swung again, full of battle lust.

Afterwards, while he was standing among the sprawled bodies, he was somewhat aware of the warm wet spot at his side. Looking stupidly at it (For his blood lust had fallen off completely and he was left weak and shaky) he realized he had been stabbed twice.

"Sir." Milan called. He came over, his face covered in crimson and his coat, but otherwise unharmed. "Sir, you're sore wounded... Here." He led him to a chest, helping Will collapse into it without too much damage. "A fine action, sir. It's all taken care of; the captain has surrendered. And Lord Admiral Gates is closing up action in the Dover, sir." He was chatting excitedly, his blood obviously still pumping. Will smiled weakly.

"Let's mop up, Mr Milan." He replied, holding his side. The wound started to hurt finally. "Fetch me that damn surgeon, would you?" Was the last thing he remembered before waking up later in the cockpit, that damned surgeon working on his wounded furiously to keep him alive....

............

That was a long time ago, he reflected now, sitting over his ceramic mug of rum, the only other remnant from those days a sea-rusted saber at his side, its silver knuckle-guard losing its luster. Lt Milan was dead, lost in action outside San Juan; the Dante lost in the following chase by Spanish galleons. He had spent four months in a prison overlooking the sea where he had lost his ship, his crew, and more than one dear friend. The experience sobered him on his dream of being a navy admiral. Naturally, losing his ship meant he stood to face court martial should he even return to an English port, even though he had been under specific orders to harass a Spanish merchant convoy headed for Havana with virtually no support. Even his request for six-pound chase guns had been denied. It was insanity.

So now here he was, disgraced, ship less, friendless, in some dank, dingy tavern in Antigua, evading the Marines in case he was recognized and searching for cruise off this rock. Antigua, of course, wasn't a dismal colony or anything- far from it. The place was wealthy, relatively flat compared to most Caribbean isles, and ideally located. No, it was overrun with Marine groups and navy officers. Recent changes from Cromwell's hell back to royal England rule had made the locals paranoid of uprisings, and security was tight as rogues are likely to say. He had to leave, and fast. Looking around the bar, the drink warming his already spinning mind, he was thinking of doing some incredibly desperate or stupid to escape and go back out to sea. He was likely ruined with the navy, unable to return to active service, and life on land made him uncomfortable with all its complexities and dangers. But where to turn?

[julton]

*It was raining when he emerged from the cabin of the ship. It was a small ship, a pirate ship that mostly preyed on lone merchant vessels and relied on its ambush strategy to take them. He glanced around to make sure no one had seen him, and slipped carefully off of the ship, hopefully the last time he would have any business with it. He checked again to make sure none had witnessed his ever being associated with the vessel, then walked quickly down the pier toward the nearest tavern or inn. His hand ached, and he cursed the, now former, captain of the ship for keeping his gun so handy. It would take weeks for the wound to heal, and it meant that his night was not over til the bloody hole in his hand quit bleeding. The makeshift bandage wrapped about his palm had bled through and his coat wasn't quite long enough, stretched as it was over his massive frame, to cover the suspicious wrapping.
He had gained some distance by now from the dock, so he stopped in the entryway to one of the shops that had closed for the night and pulled out a bottle of liquor. After downing a swig, he clenched his teeth together and poured the foul-smelling liquid over the blood-soaked cloth. It stung like all hell, but it would keep the wound clean, so he poured until he could feel the burning through the other side of his hand. That damn bullet had made a pretty clean hole straight through his palm.

He had entered the cabin just after nightfall. About the time the captain asked him to return for his cut of the loot. He immediately noticed something odd about the scene, but he was always seeing things that weren't real, so he convinced himself that he was just being slow again. He stepped forward to the captain's table. Where was the loot? He didn't see anything around, and peered around dumbly. The captain was sitting at his chair and smiling. The captain was telling him something about a bigger cut for every man, sacrifices. He wasn't giving him anything. He was speaking too loud, there was no pay, something was wrong. He heard the ring of a blade. Only two other men in the room, must have been the man at the door. He spun around, knocking the man's blade aside with his right arm, causing the blade to bite his arm and leave a bloody slash. With his left hand he grabbed the man by his shirt front and hurled him at the captain. He stood about six and a half feet tall and even for his size was bulky, while the other man was rather average size. Tossing him was easy and the body cleared the table, toppling the captain, but not before the bastard got off a shot. The bullet went through his buddy and then proceeded through the hand that had thrown him. Luckily enough, amid the man's flailing about through the air, the saber he had drawn got between him and the captain as he struck him, and the both of them landed dead on the floor of the captain's quarters, blood pooling beneath them. Bull thought enough to search through the cabin for something to take away before he made his escape. He searched through the men, finding only some pocket change and a few odd items. The captain had a gun, and the other man had the saber now embedded in the captain. He took the time to tear a strip of cloth from the captain's shirt, wrapping it tightly around his hand to try to stop the bleeding. He pulled the gun from the captain and the blade from the other man and attached the straps to himself. After searching through a few drawers he found a brown bag. Inside was a large sum of gold, probably two or three times what he was supposed to get. He grinned, and, after grabbing a bottle of some unknown liquor, made his way out of the cabin, taking one look back at the two and realizing dumbly that he might find some trouble from these two.

He continued along the strip, finally finding a place to go in. There were a couple guards at the door, but he just muscled past them and stepped into the busy room. He went to take a seat at an empty table to mull over the facts of the evening and see if his dull wit could come up with something.
He knew he had to get out of port before long. There were already a good deal of soldiers hustling about the city to clean out the scum that settled here, and two bloody bodies on a suspiciously recordless ship wouldn't help. He had to find a ship, something to get him out of here.*[/i][/color]

[Captain Will Townsend]

The Gilded Swan was a snobbish little hole in the ground, once a former respectable tavern back when the colony first spawned. Now, it was a sailor’s beer and brothel, and gambling was so commonplace that the bartender, Thomas Wilkes, kept spare dice on hand beneath the warped bar. Wilkes was a typical bartender- bitter, gruff, and perpetually worried that both his income and his property will cease to be without realizing that he encourages dangers to both. He was balding, pot-bellied, and broad armed. Rumor had it he had been a gunner on board of a British man of war before the age of Cromwell, but even if that were true, he was nothing but a simpleton now. Sitting in the corner at a shabby, dirty little table, Will reflected on Wilkes’ bad fortune as much as his own. Emma Harding, a serving girl, caught his gloomy eye and offered a half smile. She was free and easy with her attentions all right, but this deep into the cup he offered her a lewd grin in turn. She was more likely to give him a longer lasting illness than a long lasting comfort, and he was partially relieved when she turned to tend to some blubbering sailor, beard-deep in his own mug.

This allowed him to drift back into his own dark thoughts. He needed a ship, that much was plain. He had to be at sea again, to get as far away from this English stronghold as he could before he was caught. And once he did, he would make his fortune and reputation, for sure. Though the thought was immediately discomforting, he realized he would have to steal a ship. Damned if he would be stowed away on one, or working before the mast as some sort of able hand. He was an officer, a captain, damn it. And he would have his own ship. He grunted to himself on this thought and drained his mug, his face looking spectacularly red. He stood, and swaggered over to Wilkes, collapsing on the bar with that deadweight grace only those deep in the drink can have. “Sir, another tumbler, if you please.” Will asked, leaning forward, eyes barely focused. He’d had a considerable amount of alcohol tonight. The bartender grunted in reply and slid another one before him. It lasted maybe a half minute. The burn of the fiery drink taking his mind from the very real and dangerous situation ahead. “Damn fine drink, sir.” He bellowed, a praise shared by other sailors in earshot (Which was everyone). “Now.... now...” He began in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning towards the old Wilkes. “I heard some such rumor about you bein’ a former sailor. A gunner like, yes?”

“Now wait a minute-” The old man started to reply, but Will waved him off.

“It does not mean a thing to me yea or nay. See, thing is... I need a boat. Actually, a right ship. But in any case, I need to be back out in the blue, you see?” Wilkes shook his head, but Will persisted. “Now, I know you have connexions.” The bartender rolled his eyes at this. “But just hear me out... You find me some true sea dogs, some real old salts... And I’ll come back with enough gold to buy your place and set you in a fine retirement. What say you?”

Thomas Wilkes, much accustomed to such drunken antics, did not seem to have an immediate reply, but the laughs from nearby patrons let Will know he had been more than loud with his offer. The former navy captain turned, his red face scowling openly, and the laughter increased. Except, he noted, in one individual two tables to the right. A brown man, lean, either Spanish or Portuguese. He was watching Will with a keen interest, hand ready at his side. He appraised the man, his befuddled mind working to place his face. Wilkes became more interested in cleaning the glass mug before him and the other sailors went back to their dice and their drinks, but the stranger stood up, moving slowly towards Will, his hands deliberately at the well-worn dirk and hanger at his belt.

“Captain Will Townsend the Second?” He asked, his thick accent drawing out the name and title as though it were poison. Will said nothing, simply stood away from the bar and under his own power with some effort. "So you're here, you rotten dog." The Spaniard sneered, showing pearly teeth. Will screwed up his face, not quite sure what this one was about. His own hand found his navy saber, and suddenly everyone perked up at the coming tension. Would it come to blows? A shootout?

"Do I know you?" Will spoke slowly, blue eyes narrowed.

"You certainly do." The Spaniard laughed, a cruel, bitter laugh. "You sank my ship. My Armadillo. Cost me my commission." He added in a hiss.

Will's eyes widened in sudden recognition. "The Armadillo! Right, that little sloop, bristling with those long guns! Ha, you gave us quite a chase, I remember." He smiled in spite of the situation. The action against the Spaniard's ship had cost him the better part of a week, causing him to lose sight of his convoy in order to disable the privateer. All in all, it had been a bitter chase, but a profitable one. He remembered this one's downcast face as they stripped the sloop bare bones. Unfortunately, the last broadside had caused so much flooding that the hand pumps could not keep up and she sank shortly after. Will had been thoughtful enough to provide the privateer captain and his remaining crew a small cutter to take to land. "Well, you might be happy to hear that your comrades in San Juan left me without a ship and crew as well."

The Spaniard narrowed his eyes for a moment, as though gauging the truth of this assertion. Finally, he seemed content with the claim, and nodded. "Alejandro Javier Martinez." He introduced himself, and they shared a hearty handshake. "Good to see that you're in fine spirits after being landed. Mind if I share a drink with you?"

"By God, not at all. Come... Wilkes, another round if you please!" Will barked, and the surly bartender quickly set down two more tumblers before them. They took an old, worn table in the corner, and most of the others, bored and realizing no fight was forthcoming, quickly went back to their drinks and dice or loud singing. Both took another swig before the small talk continued.

"So you escaped San Juan?" Alejandro said intently, his eyes shimmering from the drink. "Not an easy thing to do. And you skulking about in this back alley pub... Fortune smiles ill upon thee, yes?"

Will grinned, despite the pain behind the memory. "That She does. Would that I could make sail again. I try not to be on dry land as much as possible." He took another swig of his drink. "I take it you never found another cruise?"

Alejandro shook his head, nursing his own drink. "Not a one. Something about being sunk by a British lugger that ruins your reputation." A wry smile. "How did you go down, Mr Townsend?"

The British ex-captain waved his hand dismissively. "Call me Will. No formalities in a tavern, it's not proper." He drained his tumbler and set it aside, face flushed. "Well, turns out after you and I had our little running battle, I was sent out to harass a slave convoy headed for Havana. Just me. No reinforcements, no contingency plans. They denied my request for longer guns and heavier shot, and sent me to sea short of hands. Me, against four caravels and a galleon. Insanity." He grew silent for a bit, reflecting on the memory of the whole event. Alejandro sat quietly, waiting for him to continue. The Spaniard knew well the sting caused by losing one's ship. "I managed to demast the hindermost before a San Juan patrol caught up to me. Two gun ships and a sloop-of-war. I was outgunned. My second was killed in the exchange, and I beat it close-hauled to escape but the ship don't respond in those kinds of winds. I lost my command on the rocks off of San Juan, hands and all."

The two sat in silence, each reflecting on the short luck of honest life at sea, if sinking and plundering in the name of God and country could be said to be honest. Finally, Alejandro broke the silence.

"You have a plan for going back into business?" He asked simply.

Will shrugged. "Not really. Just gather up a few innocent souls and we go to sea..."

The Spaniard looked at him, a hint of a smirk. "Any restrictions on how we acquire a ship?" He said in a low voice.

Will only grinned broadly, holding up his hand to signal Wilkes for another drink.

[julton]

*He usually only paid enough attention to the drunks in these places to keep himself out of too much trouble, but this time the subject matter was too close to home. Plus someone who seemed not quite so drunk was talking seriously with him. All this talk about ships led him to believe he should approach these men, but he had to prepare while he had time. He had to think through what he would tell them and what he wouldn't.
He knew immediately that he would have to keep the dead men to himself until the last minute. Maybe he would tell them that he knew an easy steal ship if they could find a crew, but he didn't know if that was a good story. He certainly couldn't come up with any good story for why the ship was there and ready without explaining what had happened. perhaps they wouldn't ask questions.If only he were that lucky, but he knew he wouldn't be able to come up with anything good, so he moved on.
He would also have to get a good share this time, since the last voyage he took clearly didn't leave him with good pay and almost left him dead in the water, in the most literal way. He wouldn't take less than half the captain's share. That sounded reasonable.
He wasn't sure, but he thought now seemed like the time to approach them. Their conversation seemed to lose some steam, so he, a towering black idiot, approached the ex-navy officer and Hispanic fellow to bargain a deal that might get him on the same ship that almost got him killed. He would be happy to leave it behind, but he didn't know what other ship could get him out of port and especially not so quick while ridding him of the pain of hiding until the attention from the bodies died down.
He stood above them both at the side of their table after taking the clear path made for him through the crowd. His hand was still killing him, but he figured it had probably stopped bleeding and he shoved it in a coat pocket.
"Gentlemen" His smooth baritone grunted in a somewhat unfamiliar language, still a second language. "I think I can help you"

[Captain Will Townsend]

It seemed that Will's half-hearted attempts at discretion had done more to spread the message rather than conceal it. The conversation between him and Alejandro ceased as they felt eyes on them. An amazing trait of all conspirators is that knack for knowing when the cat's out of the bag. Ah well, they thought. Maybe this fellow wanted in on the deal. Sure enough, the guy - massive... built like an ox- came over and introduced himself as a possible aid. Alejandro sat back, eyes narrowing as he watched the newcomer. Will, perhaps more inebriated than anyone else still breathing, looked up with a broad grin.

"Aye, help?" He said, gesturing with his tumbler. "We could use a bit of that. You have something in mind for a boat? Or maybe where we can get some proper sea dogs to brave the blue with us. Pull up a seat." Across from him the Spaniard's hand slipped to his pistol, a suspicious habit picked up from being in the business of self-employment for longer than his newly-turned friend here. The newcomer was hiding his hand as well, not a good sign.

[julton]

*He sat surprisingly lightly in the clearly undersized chair. He was quite dim-witted, but he did keep his eyes open, and clearly these men were not comfortable around him. He was used to such treatment, even months after some knew him some were still not comfortable around him. He also noticed the Spaniard's hand drift to his weapon and subtly enough flashed his own gun, or rather, the ex-captain's gun. There was no question that he could defend himself, and he did want to keep these men on their toes. Sitting in the normal sized chair, he looked somewhat ridiculous, but certainly still imposing.
"You spoke of a ship. I know of a ship. A crew, I can not much help."
He was speaking in a relatively low voice to keep people like him from paying too much attention. He had leaned a bit over the table and took the opportunity to remove his hand from his pocket and leave it in his lap under the table.
"The ship, it must be taken soon."

[Captain Will Townsend]

Alejandro watched him sharply, eyes narrowed at the sight of a gun, though he made no threatening or overt gestures, simply letting the large man have a seat. The Spaniard watched him closely, recognized the sweat as something more than just from the tropical weather, and noticed the quick movement of the hand from inside the coat to under the table. No weapon there, so he suspected it was a wound or perhaps a brand. Pirates were often branded by authorities before being hung, on the off chance that they would escape. The thought did little to ease him, though he himself had been lawless before a letter of marque made him a Spanish privateer. Oftentimes, the only difference between a pirate and a privateer was a piece of paper and favoritism from one nation. Still, this one promised a ship, and ships are nice to find when they offer themselves up. Before Will could manage a reply, he interrupted:

"Ships are rare indeed to find. But if you have a ship, perhaps some questions are in order?" He raised an eyebrow at his British comrade, and the ex-navy officer, master of himself somewhat, took the hint and ran with it.

"We were thinking a small ship to start since a crew ain't readily available." He began, in a low tone, measured. It was admirable how after all the drink he suddenly renewed his purchase on focus, though you could see his face was red and his eyes narrowed from time to time in concentration. "Sloop or schooner would be nice, though I wouldn't object to a mail-runner or a fishing rark right about now. And... " At this point he leaned forward so only his two table mates could hear him. "Is she a free ship? Or will this require some sword and shot?"[/font][/size]

[julton]

*He took his time to weigh his decision with these men, looking back and forth as they spoke to him in conspiratorial tones. He never trusted conspiratorial tones.*
"This is not the place to work out details. We need more men. Before we agree, how will we get them?"
With that he looked around the bar, spotting a few others that stood out as swarthy enough for the type of work they would be setting out to do. He thought of the bodies aboard the ship and it suddenly struck him that the ship was bound for a few days at port and a reasonable disposal of the bodies would probably take care of that problem, at least until a ragtag crew could be mustered to get out of the hornet's nest of English military.
"Although we could buy some time to take care of that."
He leaned in to the table, reaching his right hand to feel around the other side of the table as if looking for something and whispered inconspicuously.
"Meet me outside. Let us not leave together, but join outside to lose notice."
With that he stood and waved his hand at them as if to wave them off. He was familiar with this type of business operating under false pretenses with the need to deal with less than legal business. He stepped outside and off into the shadows of the next building. He would have to keep their trust by dealing with them in the open, but at least not in a crowded bar. Perhaps they could just get out of the light of the barroom so as to deal more secretly. Either way he would probably have to go deal with the bodies and he would leave them to gathering the crew. He hoped his mind wasn't working slowly as it always seemed to and that his plan actually made sense. Now nothing but to wait.*

[Captain Will Townsend]

The big man had left, with a suggestion to continue this decisive conversation in the fresh air. As he walked away, Will and Alejandro exchanged glances. A lot was passed between them without so much as a word, and when the door closed, Bull being outside in the dark, they leaned forward.

"Trap?" Alejandro whispered, clearly concerned. It was amazing how quickly he trusted William, considering they had previously been enemies, but that bond of captains who had come to respect each other in battle and after lingered on. And, he had to admit, something about Will was entirely too simple and open; a man like that likely did not have any hidden facets of his personality. At least, none menacing.

The British captain shrugged, scratching his chin with thought. "Perhaps. But then again, he risks a chance coming to us, too." He replied also in a low voice.

The Spaniard mulled it over a moment. "Still, we should take precautions. Who takes the front entrance?" He grinned at this, pearly teeth shining in the dim light.

Will grinned in turn. "I see how you run, villain. Make me run out front and get nabbed. Who's to say you will pluck me from the fire if it is a hot one?" He completed this with a stern look, all the more comical because of its strained effort.

Alejandro shrugged helplessly. "I would hang promptly. You, maybe not. You might be able to talk your way out of any redcoats." He finished his drink. "Besides, I can cover you in the dark. I blend in better than a yellow haired six foot ex-navy captain."

An answering shrug. "Can't argue with that logic. You good with a shot? Just in case?" Alejandro patted his gun in reply. "Good, good. You first; take the side door. I'll bustle out loudly and stagger over to the rendezvous. If all else fails, well..." He checked his own gun. "Don't get caught in the crossfire."

Alejandro nodded and stood up, his voice a bit louder. "Pleasure to share a drink with you, Townsend." He offered a handshake and a promise to drink again in finer ports. And then swaggered off to the side door, closing it behind him with the utmost care. Will made a show of finishing his already drained tumbler and sighed, getting up and heading for the front door, calling out to the bartender to 'keep up the fine drinks' and something muttered about putting more water in it than spirits and burst loudly from the front door. The two guards, expecting another drunken sailor, quickly made way for the exiting patron, and paid him little heed. His staggering towards the dark of another building made little notice in their night, while they resumed chatting about the new royal decrees coming from England and the nobles expected to arrive in the colony next month or so to replace the governor.

Once his eyes adjusted, Will found the rendezvous with some work, and stood a bit from Bull, skulking in the shadows as he moved. He coughed lightly, making his presence known. No apparent trap, no redcoats or footpads or anything. Just as he suspected; Bull was genuine. A crunch of grass and he noticed Alejandro was nearby, an answering muted whistle, like some tropical bird. Damn good sound too, he had to learn that one.

"Well." He began in a low tone. "Here we are. You mentioned a boat?"[/size][/color]

[julton]

*He had been waiting for just long enough to gain his night vision in the shadows, and nodded in appreciation as he saw the Spaniard slink from the background.
"I had hoped you were clever, I see that this will be a good arrangement. I, as you being so clever probably know, am not so quick. Do not mistake me, I know my trade, but it is good to know there are good brains in this."
He grinned, baring shining white teeth, surely a gift from his parents as dental care was not too common among those of his trade.
"To business then. It's a fine sloop, good for ambushing, hit and run, escape through shallows. Unfortunately, the captain and his mate thought to leave me out of the share, and fortunately, their plan turned against them. Now there's a good ship in harbor with two dead men in the cabin and a good cover story. Passed off as a privateer, not too hard to do these days."
He passed this comment off with a wink, again baring his shining white teeth, the only part of him clearly visible in the deep shadows.
"I could dispose of the bodies, but surely they would be found within days and it would be hard to get out of port. If we get out in a few days..."
He shrugged with another grin.
"Then I suppose we're free and clear. I give you a moment to choose."
With that he stepped back into deeper shadows, nearly vanishing to their sight. He took this opportunity to switch his blood-soaked bandage for another strip of shirt cloth that he had stuffed into his pocket. He waited patiently, calmly now knowing that the thinking was finally left to someone else.
As he changed his bandage, he noticed with amusement that the shot had cleared his hand of the pirate brand that had formerly dwelled there. It had been a close call escaping the noose that time, but it was so long ago, he was quite used to hiding it by now. He took it as a good luck sign and grinned as he wrapped the new bandage.*

[Captain Will Townsend]

A grin spread across Will's face as the newcomer revealed his bird was a sloop. A small one, from the sounds of it, which was good, because larger ships attracted attention and took lots of sea dogs to man. Hopefully Bermuda or Jamaica built, if they were lucky. Two dead bodies, but he wasn't preoccupied with those details. Bodies disappeared easily at sea, and even if they had to dispose of them before they raised anchor, two bodies in the bay might take some time to find if they are weighted down with shot and sunk. A nod and smirk from Alejandro let him know that the Spaniard approved of the boat as well. They huddled closer, murmuring thoughts they were both sharing.

"Sloop. A right quick one..."

"With a ship like that, we can make an easy time of it. Keep her in water year 'round..."

"And out-maneuver anything afloat. You've sailed a few, aye?"

"Aye. They beat well into the wind, good for a quick tack. Lightly armed though."

"Bah, we don't need shot when we can ambush them in the night, or blow their mainmast out. I have seen Bermuda-built sloops sail circles around schooners in a gale."

They paused a moment, each savoring the news. Finally, they turned to Bull.

"You sir. I haven't even asked your name." Will spoke conversationally, but the smothered gaiety was apparent. To be at sea again! And with two able hands. "And also, before I forget.... you said this bird passed for a privateer. Does she have any papers on her?" If the ship had faked privateer papers, that would mean they could pose as a privateer as well, making their initial voyages barely legal.[/size][/color]

[julton]

*He quickly tied off his bandage, pulling it tight and wincing while grinning at the clear excitement in his fellows.
"It seems, gentle men, that we have arrived at an agreement. It also seems that I have found trustworthy fellows not to stab my back this moment and take my ship. They call me Bull, and mind you I've taken worse wounds than a knife in the back from men who fared much worse for the attempt."
He seemed stern for a moment, but clearly couldn't keep a straight face and broke into another grin. With that he held out his hand to shake with his new fellows.
"The truth, but just to keep you on your toes. Yes, we had fake papers. I was hired on this time, my first trip with them to replace some lost men, but they had run the coast twice before I joined them. A good set up, but dangerous to keep or too long."
Sobered by the thought, he stared at both men. Surely there was excitement in the air to find three men, trustworthy and true, and able handed no less, but Bull always knew the happy moments were the ones when you got stabbed in the back. Happiness was a distraction among dishonest men, and surely there were plenty around out for necks just like his.
"Now, for caution's sake, I will go take care of the bodies now. If you come, OK, if not, find a crew, yes?"
He grinned again and chuckled lightly.*

[Degaré Bontecou]

The flood of anxious travelers eager to set foot again on land swept Degaré Bontecou off the boat and onto the crowded dock without ever requiring the aid of his legs. That his knees knocked and the ground seemed to pitch up and down around him moreso now than the water he just escaped suggested he had yet to find the sea-legs of any decent seaman on the voyage. Deposited and abandoned by the surge of bodies, he teetered unsteadily. The rolling nausea that overcame him threatened of an especially unsavory event for one who had not eaten enough to complete it successfully. Oh, God. He clutched his stomach. He gasped for air. He was going to be fine. Fine like so many times before, dammit! Moments later Degaré was flat on his belly, hanging precariously over the edge of the dock and soundlessly cursing every drop of water between here and France. He was also making a convincing production of what one does when he’s vomiting and yet, at the same time, wasn’t actually vomiting at all. What stomach acid had accumulated after his last meal had come out in a bout of this same sort of trouble several hours ago and he was left to go through the motions with nothing but drool to back him up. If he got stepped on now, it could only add to the fun. Over his own noise he caught the chuckles of a few folks sicker even than him. A sailor’s life for me for sure, he thought miserably.

The session passed only when his insides were wrung out and too tired to continue. A few gags marked the end as he climbed wearily to his feet and dragged a sleeved arm over his mouth. It, like the rest of his shirt, was damp, spattered with dirt and smelled suspiciously of fish. He could likely thank the dock’s soggy wooden boards and heavy traffic for the mess. Another set of clothes were in order as soon as they made themselves available for borrowing. Thieving was nothing to look forward to as he recalled from the lingering guilt of last time. What meager possessions he’d started with had been pawned for fare on the pilgrimage ship set for Antigua and he stood now, in this new world, a new man in some other man’s clothes. For he was a small boy of no more than fifteen, the soft, white, or was before the stains anyways, chemise hung like a dressing gown and mud brown breeches were belted at the waist with a knotted length of rope and rolled into uneven folds to mid-calf. Because his scuffed, leather shoes were just as much boats as the one he’d departed minutes before, his was a bit of a duck walk and a shuffle in one. Shoes were shoes to his way of thinking. Degaré in no way wanted what soaked his shirt collecting on unprotected, bare feet. A felt cap was pulled tight down over the disaster that was his hair. It had been hacked with nothing more accurate than a machete and poked out in wild points of earth brown not so different from the hat containing it. Large eyes of yet another shade of brown were cast in shadow more often than not. This added darkness made the black bags hovering under them appear all the more deep. Small and flat, a tarnished silver medal dangled from his neck and served as his only possession of any worth. Saint Ovidius, honored by the voiceless among others, gazed passively out from his place on Degaré’s chest having fallen loose of his shirt during the bout of sickness. Mugging was not high on his list of priorities and he hastily stuffed it back inside the collar. In ports such as this lurked all kinds of danger.

Degaré had no destination in mind, but took his cue from those who had exited the ship ahead of him and moved into the heart of Antigua. Night had come over the land like a drawn curtain, casting the unfamiliar port-town into an unsettling darkness in which anything could be hiding. Shelter leapt to the top of his priority list. Disappointed to find the majority of his fellow passengers had blended into the landscape while he was making his donation to the sea, he kept a wary eye on everyone he did pass and felt as if they were keeping a similar eye on him. The exceptionally odd mix of military men and shady types was almost comical. Alone and in groups the men Degaré wouldn’t fancy his chances against in a fight glared out from their shadowed alleys and whispered of illegal plots in the cover of night. Though each and every one of them looked as if he were begging to be arrested, the colony’s guards seemed to have eyes only for him, or so it seemed. Am I wearing a target?, he fretted. Paranoia crept in like infection. That was stupid. He couldn’t possibly be recognized here after the precautions he had taken. Much had changed for anyone to suspect. But the feeling that they were all on to him and planning his capture in plain sight of him had his step hastening towards somewhere he could hide till morning. Too many guards for one island! What little he’d learned about Antigua before setting out hadn’t prepared him for their number. What were they guarding in here that had them moving in swarms? The sugar advertised on every sign and building in sight? Edible white sand suddenly needed an army to protect it? Doubtful. He hurried on and left them to defend or find whatever it was they wanted.

The establishments he passed were mostly closed at this hour, so he was drawn instinctively to what few were still lit. An inn or a tavern would be his best bet for pockets to pick and unattended clothes to wear. This was just a brief stop on his journey to somewhere. Somewhere else. By the time the drunk who had lost his shirt came looking for it, it would be long gone. Food, despite his rocky belly, didn’t sound half bad either. More to throw up over the side of the next ship. How he detested sea travel in all of its forms. He was staring in the window of one of Antigua’s seediest taverns, wondering what swans had to do with it when he realized there were voices behind him. As the night had grown suddenly quiet, he could make out scraps of the conversation, but wasn’t interested enough to want to listen. But it happened anyways. So far he’d made out three separate voices and he was sure it was three for their accents were so wildly different it was easy to tell them apart. There was mention of a sloop, whatever that was, an agreement and something to do with fake papers. Why didn’t the town’s extensive law enforcement breathe down their necks? Trying not to listen was like trying not to breathe, which Degaré realized he was actually doing quite well as he held his breath in the struggle to overhear. He hovered uncertainly and acted as if debating whether or not to go in. He was actually undecided on his next move, so the show wasn’t a total lie. Thumbs hooked in his rope belt, he sidled up to the main window and peered in curiously.

[Captain Will Townsend]

A shake of hands and the shifty but hopefully profitable alliance was created. It was decided that they would replace the bodies, take the ship, and strike out for glory and fortune or what ever else comes their way. All in all, the two former captains were pleased. Bull seemed incredibly trusting, even for his initial reservation, and men like that could be relied upon in a pinch. Sure, they would watch him as he would no doubt watch them (Light trust among thieves and crooks), but overall Alejandro and Will felt he would do. At the very least he could board a ship and intimidate enemies into surrender.

"So now we prepare." The Spaniard remarked quietly. "The Bull is off to clean up, and we need essentials to strike out. Lord only knows what this ship still has onboard."

His English comrade looked thoughtful. "Hmm... Small sloop won't have much in the way of serious supplies. And to be quite frank, I am not a wealthy man at the moment." A grunt of acknowledgement from his partner in crime. "Well, I need to find some old sea hands to help us with the loot. We'll part company and meet back at the Gilded Swan before sun up."

Alejandro paused, and Will took his hesitation gravely, immediately beginning to apologize for some imagined insult or assumption when the Spaniard spilled his inner concern: "When we first crossed paths, Mr Townsend, I surrendered my blade and my ship. The ship I lost fairly, and I dealt with that sting. But the blade was an heirloom from my family, and I had hoped to see it again some day." Another pause, his face red in the darkness. "I was wondering if... well, maybe you still had it somewhere?" A hopeful look; the sword meant something to him indeed.

Indeed, Will had stashed it somewhere. Somewhere precious. Will winced for a moment, suddenly realizing a life he was getting ready to abandon and leave behind forever. Part of him felt that he had no choice; he was broken as a captain and a wanted man by the Spanish. He had no where to run. With the new Royalist regime he could be hung by a yardarm for being promoted under Cromwell's rule. Whether or not he agreed with the dictator's ideals meant little to Royalist nobles and officers seeking to establish control in the colonies before anarchy broke loose.

Of course, another part of him felt longing for the old life. For being a captain in blue, sea spray hitting his face as he chased a prize, eager to bring in another enemy of England, so he could put money towards his debt and future in Montserrat. A warm smile, her long hair tumbled all about, streaked light from the ever-present sun. Sitting on the beach while she shared her dreams, and then listened intently to his. Some semblance of a rooted, land-based future. It was nice, warm feeling. And fleeting, like most dreams. The reality of it leaving him quicker than the heavy effects of his drinking as he realized he had left the fine blade with her last time they had seen one another. His mouth worked soundlessly, trying to sort the words, and now it was Alejandro’s turn to take hesitation for something else.

“It is long gone.” The Spaniard said with a low tone of finality. He suddenly looked much smaller, resigned.

“No...” Will choked, working his dry throat into a functional instrument again. “No, not long gone. Just... in keeping. Along with something quite precious to me.” Or rather, someone, he thought. “I cannot promise it right away. But if we come to chance upon its location, it is yours again. Deal?”

“Deal.” Alejandro smiled and they shook hands. “Now, I must run off and see what I can scrounge up for us. I am afraid recruiting is going to be more your job then mine, so I will handle provisions and other... essentials. Adios.” And with that he melted into the darkness with the same skill and ease that Bull had shown.

Left to his own devices now, Will became a bit less certain. That strong memory of Montserrat and the future he once had there made him remain there, silent, brooding. It was some time passed before he started in the direction of the marketplace. Even at this hour, a few hawks could be found fighting over the scraps of business in the rich port. Of course, so preoccupied, he was ignorant of anyone lingering nearby, or local authorities. The salty air hit his nose, smelling acrid and harsh for the first time since he had been a boy....

[julton]

*Bull knew just as well as the other two did that there was little trust between them, but for the situation at hand it was enough. They had made a bargain and there were precious few left alive who hadn't held up their end with Bull. As he shifted through shadows, passing almost invisible through the darkened and shadowed streets of Antigua, he pondered scrounging together some of the crew from the last voyage. The conspiracy against him couldn't have gone far beyond the captain and his mate, and Bull knew there were some decent men out there with him, with decent sword arms at that. He would have to deal with that after ridding himself of these bodies.
Now that he thought of the business he was about to attend to, he decided a good shake of pursuit would do him well before he got close to his destination. He slipped into a nearby alley, dark as the deepest night and not without its own rank smells to remind him of how he had come to the colonies. He had just passed into manhood, at an age where the innocence of boyhood was gladly thrown off for the mantle of manhood. He would join his father and his father's father and all those before him as warriors and providers, keepers of their tribe. It was indeed a great honor, and his already bulky build had passed him easily into his manhood with a new bout of courage and pride.
But truly, boyish innocence had not been lost. He was ambitious, too proud, and far too daring. Their lands had enough food to keep them all and they had a tentative peace with the neighboring tribe that kept his people and theirs from hunger and bloodshed, but Bull, out on his first hunt, had been on the trail of a fine buck that would feed his family for a week or more. He knew it had passed beyond their lands, but he could not give it up. His pride cost him his freedom, a cost that he would shake free of not soon enough. The hunters from the other tribe had been watching, there were too many of them, and they had made a pact with the devils. He was chained and beaten and dragged into a cage, held captive and taken to white men's ships.
The beatings broke his pride, the chains broke his courage, and the betrayal of his people, the way one black man turned against another to gain the favor of the white devils, broke his spirit. He was lost in a torturous world of cruelty and pain, and of course the ever more familiar smell of piss and sweat and fear mixed in with the stench of death so close that you could reach out and touch it if not for the chains that held you in place.
The journey was long, too long, and just as he became accustomed to the rantings and ravings of the mad, the smells of a ship full of slaves, the feel of rough planks and sweaty bodies, he regained hope. He came to know his prison, its strengths and weaknesses, the schedules of the guards and what they carried, the number of living African men, those willing to fight. He knew that even if they bought their freedom, it had been too long and they had come too far to return home.
He saw change in himself, felt a different creature inside of his head and his heart than had been there before. He knew the change, and at that moment he knew that he could never return home. He had begun to question the bonds of the physical world, testing the strength of chains and the authority of their "masters". He paid for his questioning, but no pain they brought him would break his newly forged spirit. Robbed of dignity and respect, he stole himself pride and courage and planned his escape from this prison, all the while thinking up the worst of pain for those that had raped his spirit and chained his body...
He shook himself to awareness. He was kneeling in a dark alley, the smell of piss and waste filled his nostrils, and his blood stirred with the fire of indignities past. He reigned himself in, cooling his blood with the cold iron grip of resolve, and stood. He had been here far too long and would now probably have real pursuit instead of simple caution. He cursed himself for the oversight and continued down the alley, taking many small turns and finally finding his way back to a populated street. The shadows were less, but he could travel through them and pass through more alleys to find his destination. His sense of direction was impeccable, and it had to be. As a sailor never trusted with navigation, he relied on his intuitive senses to guide him and tell him where he was, to keep him in control of the situation, always. He passed through more shadows and alleys, noting a group of ruffians looking him off in a dark corner after seeing his stature and searching for another good target.
Finally he made his slow way to the pier, confident that any pursuit would have been quite hard pressed to keep with him in the darkness where his skin and dark clothing would certainly render him invisible. He walked calmly now along the pier, finding the ship again and noting that it would probably become so much more familiar instead of disappearing forever from his mind as he had originally planned. He should have dealt with the bodies before leaving, but he had never been so clever. He made his way onto the ship and into the cabin to clean up the mess he had made. His hand still hurt as he pushed open the cabin door and he cursed the men that he now had to dispose of for their foolishness. After pulling up his sleeves, he got to work cleaning the scene and all the while pondering how best to dispose of the bodies.*