The High Seas adventure of the Lucky Bastard

[RavenStorm]

( okay since most of the people on the old thread were inactive and talking it over with the others we will be starting a new member can have a fresh template to start from. We will be begining from the start of his take this time.)

It was a pleasent summer day on the Coast of Crookhaven. Well if you ignored the big imposing ships of the British sitting at Port like guns aimed the heads of every Irish man. The small village was in a strange mood. Merchants and sailors rushed to finish work so they can leave, villagers either hid away or argued drunkenly in pubs about fighting back but no one would dare make a scene with such might at the door.

Brenan ran from his home just carrying a bag of supplies and his family heirloom. That might cuase issues but well he would use it more than his coward of his father. The argument still played in his head. His father telling him there's no reason to fight just to die and that this way there people can live. He shouted back they would live as caddle to be used like every other small nation the English grabbed. His father told him to go fight and die than but don't drag his people with it.

He sat on a hill seething as he looked at the ships. His hands gripping the blade tight but not charging for he hated his dad but he was right. A small rebellion would just be wasted life but he couldn't stay so where did that leave him?

( If you can't tell. This is when he first runs, he will join a ship thinking its an fishing or merchant boat before he gets his awakening to his destiny. Where do you want to join? Are you part of the pirate ship crew, friend running with him, or an enemy hiding?)

 

[Ahlanna]

Repairs from the long haul were almost complete. Only one of the jibs remained - having caught ablaze thanks to drunken incompetence from the rig chief. Not that Tara had anything against being drunk, it was the incompetence part that bothered her. There was no call for that, not uprig. Sure, maybe in an emergency when all hands are pulled up from their hammocks, maybe you don't have a choice. But on a clear night, just because you were bored? The man should have been whipped, but he was friends with the boatswain, that lumbering tool. Hopefully they'd both be gone in Amsterdam. Or maybe she might have to be. Tara had never been to the Netherlands, but she spoke the language, and surely there was some other crew run by someone less venal than this pair. Sure, the Captain wasn't the worst, but he was retiring, and who knows what you might get in replacement?

The replacement jib was supposed to be loaded any minute now, but of course, it was late, leaving the riggers idle on deck, chatting in little groups. Ugh. Socializing. Tara heads down below-decks to get away from the others. Entering the galley, she rummages around and makes herself a sandwich with some of the bacon left over from the long journey, as well as some of the chicken they had butchered for the last-lunch-at-sea celebration before reaching port. Now that they were in port, new supplies were stacked up on the dock, and this old stuff was gonna get tossed by morn to make room for it anyhow. Shame to let it go to waste. In fact ... Tara smiles a bit, knowing how much it would piss the bosun off. But technically, his putting the pirates down in the hold on 'stale bread and water' diet had been 'until port'. And they were in port.

Not that Tara's an especially generous woman, but defying that lecherous bastard is worth it. She puts together a couple more chicken-bacon sandwiches and brews a pot of tea from her personal store - no one can bitch at her for that, and she just re-upped it at the village yesterday anyhow. She's just heading down to the hold with the sandwiches, tea and a few tin cups, when she spots a flicker of light from the doc's bay and pokes her head in, "What, did someone stub their toe and they call you back for it?"

 

[velvet.]

Isabel froze. A leather-wrapped surgeon’s box rested on the operating table, a pack with her tool roll propped against one table leg. Bottles, cork-stoppered and wax-sealed, joined their companions in the box. Apothecaries would pay a king’s ransom for the tinctures and powders she packed, but Isabel doubted any of the other sailors on board knew their true value. They would probably drink all of it, the ones smelling of alcohol at least.

The surgeon replied Tara,

"No. Nobody broke any bones, or stabbed themselves, thank god."

Trade runs always had more than their fair share of malingering. The Captain of the Vriendschap’s last voyage back to Amsterdam, bearing sugar and tobacco from Oranjestad, was precisely that. A bored crew on fixed wages? It was a recipe for “accidentally” broken pinkies, slashed arms, and feigned heatstroke—all for a private moment with the ship’s doctor. Isabel may have made their treatments hurt more than necessary, little lessons for the afflicted to be more careful in the future. But by god, it only made some of the sailors come back for more.

"Just grabbing some things,” she finished with a worried smile.

There was no escaping how suspicious the surgeon looked, squirrelling away medical supplies bought with ship’s funds, making them ready for transport. Isabel shouldered her pack, and heaved the surgeon’s box off the table by its carrying handle. Gripping Tara’s arm, she squeezed the rigger’s bicep and leaned close, whispering despite the empty hallway, “Get out while you can, the English are onto us.”

—

One hour ago.
At the Silver Stag tavern…

If any of the Irish here had any of their legendary luck, none of them were sharing it with the Spaniard drinking alone. Isabel had sidled up to every promising ship’s captain who came in, seeking employment. But none of the fellows were looking for a surgeon, even at a deckhand’s wages.

Her plan had been to continue sailing with the Vriendschap to Amsterdam. Their stop in the small village on Crookhaven’s coast was meant to be a quick resupply after their Atlantic crossing. A remote Irish port, where there was little risk the Vriendschap would be recognized by the name she once bore—Stormvogel, a Dutch privateer, which raided a good number of ships of the other seafaring nations in the Caribbean, including the English.

A simple resupply in a podunk town. Until the three ships of the line showed up in port, flying the Union Jack. Their mainmasts towered over the church steeple, guns pointing menacingly at the populace. Red coat marines flooded the simple dirt streets, and all maritime activity slowed to a crawl. All arrivals and departures became subject to British inspection.

Isabel decided it was a good time to jump ship. To find some other less suspicious vessel on which to serve, preferably English, and get back to sea before the red coats could…

Clomping boots trooped into the Silver Stag tavern. A small section of marines marched themselves to her table.

“You’re Isabel de la Cruz?” asked the officer in his powdered wig and military sash. His men surrounded her table, muskets slung non-threateningly over their shoulders, but held in a way that suggested they could be threatening in short order.

¡Coño!

“¿Quién eres? No hablo inglés,” the surgeon replied.

“What?”

Great. A naval officer who neglected his language classes.

“No, I am Maria de la Cruz. It is a common Spanish last name pendajo.”

“What’s that?” The officer’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What is what?”

“Pendajo.”

“A term of deep respect, pendajo. I would not call your men pendajos, it is reserved for officers. Be warned, do not ever use it for a king. You address one of them as hijo de puta,” said Isabel, giving the English officer a dockside education in Spanish.

“Well Maria, you’re coming with us.”

“What for?”

“To help us with our inquiries.”

These bastards obviously knew who they were looking for. Why did they not just seize the Vriendschap? Perhaps they merely suspected the truth. Wrongfully seizing a Dutch merchant ship was career suicide for their commanding officer. Tensions between the colonial powers being what they were, it may start a war with the Dutch Republic without the Crown’s approval. Which means they needed proof. And they intended to extract said proof from Isabel. The surgeon had no illusions regarding their methods of interrogation.

“And if I refuse?”

“This is not a request, Miss. You’re coming with us.”

“In that case, I can hardly turn down a gentleman, especially one who asked so...politely,” said Isabel. She stood up, feigning a stagger. “Oops!” Giggling, the surgeon picked up her empty pewter mug and held it upside down. “Perhaps you would first escort me to the privy?" She peered at the rank on his sash. "Lieutenant…”

“Parker”

“Lieutenant Parker. It seems I had too much to drink.” Her arm found its way into the crook of the man’s elbow. His red ears and flushed cheeks told Isabel her ploy was working.

“Stay here,” Lieutenant Parker commanded his section, “I’ll be back.”

They headed behind the tavern to a wooden building. Isabel was quietly grateful her escort had let the head between his legs, and a misplaced sense of honour, do his thinking for him. Lieutenant Parker was left standing guard outside while the surgeon entered the latrine. Within the stench-suffused confines, Isabel climbed onto the nearest wooden seat, and out the ventilation window on the building’s rear wall, sprinting as fast as her feet would carry her, back to the Vriendschap.

—

Having delivered her warning, Isabel let go of Tara’s arm and moved to make her way up the companionway. Perhaps she could lie low further inland?

@Ahlanna

 

[Ahlanna]

"Get out while you can, the English are onto us."

Words send shivers through the back of Tara's spine. Setting the tray of sandwich and tea down on a nearby surface, she backs against the wall for support, legs gone to rubber in a second.

"But how ... and ..." It didn't seem possible. They'd had all the time of the long crossing to play mental scenarios. Tara knew the Stormvogel would outrun most vessels - maybe not a ship of the line on the open sea, with the wind. But they wouldn't have had the wind, not at the start anyhow, quite the opposite. Word could not have possibly gotten ahead of them. And even if it could, she knew the English naval mind. Her Captain - mentally Tara kicks herself, her features scrunching up, Not my captain! - Captain Givens had waxed on at length regarding the stupidity of his fellow officers, how they were too worried about law, the mission, civility, their personal reputations to do what needed to be done to be truly effectual.

No ship of the line would follow them across the Atlantic, hell, no English naval ship would. It took a transfer at the highest levels of Admiralty to reassign a ship from the Caribbean to the Home Islands. Even Givens wouldn't have been so bold - though he would gnash his teeth, and take his frustrations out on her ... tears begin to well in the corner of her eyes.

He can't hurt me anymore, he's not here.

Sniffling, Tara tries to refocus. To seize a ship openly flying Dutch, they'd need incontrovertible evidence. More importantly, they'd need anti-piracy as part of their mission, and what ship around Ireland would have been tasked with stopping Caribbean privateering? They just weren't *important* enough for that. Not until they started privateering in these waters - and more specifically took an English prize.

Could some individual officer take an affront for some reason? Well, possibly. And sure, any of them can ask whatever questions they want - or even pose as the lawful authority - at least assuming the high Admiralty had decided to exercise power in Ireland. But none of that gave them remit to seize a foreign ship. They'd been in port a couple of days, there was no reason for the English to assume any smuggled goods would still be aboard. And the crew would never be held responsible for smuggling anyhow, that was an officer problem. With piracy it was more of a question, but as she knew from many of Given's tirades, they had to have evidence against the individual crew member, that he (it was always a he with Givens, women had no place at sea) had personally killed someone under English authority, not just that he was on a crew that had. The captain could be held responsible regardless, maybe the mate. But the rest of the crew, not without evidence or a confession. And there was no way such evidence could have beat them across the Atlantic. It wasn't likely that it would even be sent in the first place.

So Isabel was just taking things out of context. Fair enough, Tara knew all too well, how darkly the threat could hang in your mind, beyond all reason. Indeed, had the ship stores been open, just the mention would have had her running for strong drink. But they are not, so all she can do for now is be miserable. But not here. The pirates below were no threat to her, and it wasn't often Tara gets to feel that way. To actually 'outrank' someone.

She takes up the tray and heads down to the hold, trying not to let her darkened mood color her tone - and almost certainly overcompensating.

Nevertheless the reasons why, she enters the makeshift 'prison' where the captives were shackled and speaks with an exaggeratedly chirpy tone, "Good afternoon, gentlemen. It's time for lunch!"

Which would of course normally mean stale - and probably mouldy - bread and water, for the pair. But this time there was actual meat. And good tea.

@Hinterland

 

[RavenStorm]

The old captain was sitting in the ship cabin looking over ledger's and reports of their goods along with what this isle markets wanted. If someone said he looked more merchant than pirate he wouldn't blame them since it was his last life. If anything he probably stayed alive due to his good grade sense leading men to loot and good shares. Though you didn't get by this long on the seas without growing teeth. He looked out to see his cree help carrying crate's of stolen goods though you wouldn't guess that in less you digged deep enough.

" What in the!" He cursed slowly standing to walk to deck as he saw Isabella run back up after just getting out for leave. They had just docked and looked like any other trade ship. How could they be found out?! He grumbled rubbing through his beard as he went through mental list his mind made difficult. He walked up to meet her. " Tell me girl. Is it you or the ship they asked about cuase if you brought me trouble on this last trip..." He let the silence fill in the blank in her own mind.

Brendan on the other hand watched the commotion with a wry smirk. He couldn't start a rebellion but picking fights to let out steam was something he was used to. He just hoped his luck would show. He walked to the British peacocks waiting at the latrine like idiots and tapped thier shoulder. " If that's how you talk to ladies it'd no wonder your wives prefer you at sea." He said with a grin that showed too many teeth. He hoped they would try something today and that they haven't talked to his family to know the middle son of the clan leader was starting trouble.

 

[velvet.]

Could her luck get any worse? Running away unnoticed turned from a vain hope into soul-crushing impossibility when the grizzled old man stomped out of his cabin to confront Isabel. She stood stock still, feet shuffling in discomfort. The surgeon’s box of supplies in one hand.

¡Coño! Please don’t make me open it…

"Tell me girl. Is it you or the ship they asked about cause if you brought me trouble on this last trip..."

“The English lieutenant knew who I was, Señor Capitán," sputtered Isabel, "He tried to take me away. For questioning. I think they do not know if this vessel was the Stormvogel, but they certainly suspect something.”

—

Meanwhile, at the latrines behind the Silver Stag tavern…

Lieutenant Parker flicked open his silver pocket watch. “We’re entering in one minute Miss, make yourself decent before then,” he called out to the latrine door.

"If that's how you talk to ladies it'd no wonder your wives prefer you at sea."

Parker turned around, barely concealing the mounting irritation. Who was this Papist lickspittle addressing him as if they were equals? He could almost smell the alcohol coming off the Irishman’s grinning face. These slothful Jacobites needed to be shown a firm hand, but he was too busy to teach this cur a lesson at the moment.

“Be on your way,” the officer dismissed Brendan, “this is your only warning. You’re interfering with the Crown’s inquiries.”

@RavenStorm

 

[Hinterland]

Zik and Bones had been traveling with another crew that decided it was a good idea to attack the current ship they were on. They had been severely outmatched.. so Zik decided to simply surrender himself from the start, and Bones followed Zik everywhere anyway. Bones' quirk helped as well, since no one on this crew had yet to try to harm them, or perhaps they were simply honorable people. They didn't know, and they certainly weren't in the mood in testing the limits. This wasn't their first time, and most likely not the last time, sitting in a brig.

Zik came a long way from being a Captain to his current predicament. He felt most people would try and try again with another crew.. but for some reason his confidence was lost after losing his own, his wife among them. He simply became a drifter, joining anybody who needed him. Anybody except the Brits.. they took everything away from him, and he assumed Bones as well, as he had a strong disdain towards them too. Though it was only speculation since Bones never really talked about his past before Zik. He has been told the British took his homeland away, but that was such a long time ago, Zik had doubts about it. However, they did take away and destroy his livelihood, his crew and wife, and subjected him to some horrendous tortures before leaving him for dead. Besides hating them, Zik did not care what happened in the world around him anymore.

Sitting in a cramped cage was nothing to him, nor was the food he was being served. Bones on the other hand looked absolutely miserable due to his size. Even if the cells were standard, Bones was simply too giant of a man.

The only issue Zik was having was his fading time.. he had only a few days supplies on him of his Voodoo. They were caught.. a few days ago. So Zik was out, having smoked it up. He had been sober now for almost a day, and he was already dreading the consequences. He had seeds on him, as he always recollected any seeds, but of course, those are useless, and would take a while to grow. Zik was in for a painful time, not unless he somehow got his hands on more..

Zik set up his own stashes throughout the world, and had people placed in every major port, and some minor ports, to hold onto and to grow Voodoo for him. They were sworn to secrecy, so that Zik's special drug couldn't get into the public's hands. Zik also always refused to share his Voodoo with anybody, not out of spite, but knowing how dangerous it could be.

When the woman came in again today, Zik saw through her demeanor, but said nothing as he smelled something more than just bread.

He was sitting on the ground, legs splayed out in front of him, sitting back on his hands. In the cell next to him, Bones was sitting cross legged, his axe hanging on his back as usual. His mask was on, and it was hard to tell if he was awake or not. Zik was unarmed.

"Oh, Bones.. they are generous today! Meat and tea!" Zik said in an exaggerated excited voice. Bones said nothing. In fact, Bones had yet to speak since being captured.

"Grumpy one he is!" Zik said lowly. Zik's voice was.. exotic.. to say the least. He had a similar accent to that of a Spaniard, even looked a little like one, but since no one knows where he came from, including himself, that's all anyone had to go off of. He also had intelligence in his voice, but that was something he never showed. Years of traveling though, certainly muddied his accent and lingo.

Zik looked at the young woman thoughtfully, "Ah.. anyway.. you can spare the cheerful act.. we're just prisoners." Though Zik couldn't help but eye the food. He could also feel a dull ache forming behind his right eye, which twitched slightly, his warning of what was to come. "By any chance, are we close to gettin' out of here?" He kept the ache pushed down for now, to keep up his somewhat friendly demeanor, though his smile from the last couple days was gone.

@Ahlanna

 

[Ahlanna]

Oh shit. Tara gets caught overcompensating for her mood. Toning it down a little, she pours the tea into little tin cups. "Do me a favor and don't tell the bosun. Not sure if you did something to annoy him or just that he has a prediliction for meanness - well, I know he has that, but maybe it's not *just* that."

She brings Bones his cup and sandwich, and sits down to wait. After all, she should dispose of the plate and cup evidence after they are done.

"Close, hmm. In a sense, yes. We finished the crossing - obviously, I'm sure you noticed that - so now we just have to jaunt up around Scotland and on in to Amsterdam. What, 3 days or so? Maybe 4. We're just waiting on a replacement jib and to load up, so I expect we'll be hoisting anchor soon."

Tara's tea is the good stuff, at least, as she has experience with spices and exotic plants. Not that she knows anything about what's bugging Zik.

"I was sort of surprised you attacked us crosswind. Didn't you see the poleacre rigging? I assume you figured we were just barely-armed merchants, but if we had been, we could have trimmed the mainsail, reefed the topsails, and close-hauled away from you with no trouble ..." indeed, Tara had suggested just that, since she assumed the opposing crew knew what they were doing. Bosun made sure to give her guff about it later, but it wasn't Tara's fault they were morons in over their heads. "... but of course, we weren't typical merchants."

 

[RavenStorm]

The old man sighed at the explanation as he helped his foot listening. One of them would have to draw attention to themselves before they can leave. " Listen I never asked about your true name for we are all running from our past." He said wearily as the anger passed and his age began to show making him less a fearsome pirate and more a worn out man waiting on retirement. " You weren't followed were you?" He asked looking back to the coast but so far he just saw the crew working. " Just go back on the ship and lay low till we can head out. If they didn't catch you coming here they have no lead to go on."

Meanwhile Brendan was cussing trouble with the British soldiers using this as a last hoorah before running away. He have the man a scowl showing the disdain of invading forces acting like they owned the place already. " Yeah well the king can keep his fat ass and his small business away from this place." He spat glaring at the guy. " You have no power to punish anyone here!' he wished the guy would throw a punch. He would probably lose the fight but he just had to run to a near by ship and ask for work.

 

[velvet.]

Isabel de la Cruz 28 // Spanish Cartagenera // Surgeon "I can stop the bleeding, or start it. That depends on how you speak to me, Señor." ​ Not even the Marines who pursued her knew Isabel’s actual last name. She had adopted “de la Cruz” to escape the Inquisition’s tribunal and had been wearing it ever since. In any case, her name did not matter. There simply were not that many surgeons who happened to be a woman, and she stuck out like a sore thumb. There were advantages—letters to and from colleagues were seldom misplaced—the sisters, in various convents of the New World, were meticulous when handling her letters. In exchange, Isabel provided them lessons in the art of healing where possible. Isabel had been turned down on pirate voyages before, on account of being too conspicuous. Her job-seeking at the tavern must be what drew the British attention. She should have been more careful. Guilt wormed its way into her mind. Burrowing, urging Isabel to make things right. Perhaps she should run away no matter what the Capitán said? Mislead the English into thinking she served on another ship? Her gut tied itself in knots at the thought. No, she would not risk getting captured and tortured. While she appreciated how the Capitán did not ask for her name when hiring her, he seemed to have missed the point. “No. I do not think I was followed, Señor Capitán. If you would hear my thoughts…” “And what do you have to say on the matter?” said the elderly captain. “The English do not yet know which ship I am serving on. They found me in the Silver Stag tavern. If anyone asks, tell them you do not know, or direct them to some other ship in port. This may make them go away.” The grizzled old man nodded. “I shall let the crew know,” he said, hobbling onto the deck on arthritic sea legs. Isabel headed below decks, putting away her luggage. Where would be a good place to hide? What place was best, to conceal herself from a sudden British inspection? The hold probably. It was a functional mix of dim light, crates, barrels, sacks, and the brig—plenty of hiding spots for her, and an abundance of distractions for any inspector. Conversation floated up, meeting Isabel as she descended the ladder into the bowels of the ship. Tara was here. Being nice to the prisoners. “Emm…the old man caught me trying to run away,” said Isabel to Tara. If the surgeon looked any more sheepish, she would be sprouting wool and eating grass. “Also, if any pompous red coat comes looking for me, I was never on this ship.” She sat down on the nearest crate, watching the two prisoners eat their sandwiches and drink tea. “Did Señor Capitán say why we are keeping these two? We are in port, we can let them off. Let them be somebody else’s problem.” Secretly, Isabel was grateful the two captured pirates did not cause too much trouble before surrendering. Deciding who would live or die after a battle was never fun. A task often made more onerous by the lack of sleep, when the injured came to her table one after the other, for days on end. Wait. One of the scarier prisoner’s eyes was twitching. Something at the back of Isabel's analytical mind nudged her. Shouldn't the larger man, covered in bones, and wielding an axe that looked too heavy for her to lift, be scarier than he appeared? The bigger man gave off cuddly puppy vibes despite his appearance. It was odd, to say the least. She put the thought aside and peered through the cage at Zik. “What have we here? Been enjoying some of the herbs found in the Indias have you?” @Ahlanna, @Hinterland

—

Meanwhile, at the latrines behind the Silver Stag tavern…

While Lieutenant Parker managed to keep his face impassive, the Marines around Brendan were wearing constipated frowns. A subtle nod to his men, and the Irishman found each of his arms restrained by a soldier from behind. A third Marine took his time winding up his swing, letting Brendan have a good view of the fist he rammed into the Irishman’s solar plexus.

The Marines looked to their commander.

“He needs another lesson, Sergeant Stibbons. Show him the wages of impertinence.”

A second fist followed the first, striking Brendan in exactly the same position on his torso.

“Stop,” ordered the officer, as Stibbons was winding up for a third swing, “He has insulted us twice, and we have punished him accordingly. Let no man say the English are unjust. Release him.”

The Marines holding Brendan took the initiative to fling him into the mud.

Ignoring the inconsequential Irishman, Lieutenant Parker turned to the latrine door. “You’ve had plenty of time Miss, I regret to inform you that we’re coming in."

Stibbons pushed open the door, and the only thing that greeted the Marines, was the smell of what happens when hundreds of digestive tracts unionized, and collectively objected to the amount of alcohol put through them.

“Sergeant Stibbons, take the men and scour every building in this village.” The Lieutenant glared at his section as they trooped away. Parker steeled himself, for the humiliation of having to report to his superior—that they had found their person-of-interest, only to lose her again. Squaring his shoulders, he made ready to head back to the ships.

@RavenStorm