Irish Wolf wrote:"Aye young John" said Starbuck, almost sounding rueful, "The winds have born strange voices upon them and the spray has been tasting strange of late. It makes me wonder if some wicked spirit has been sailin with us and flown ahead, ta warn all the whalefish of our approach. If we keep on like this, the crew will be owin money come the next time we make Nantucket, even if we return with a hold fill of oil."

The harpooner had to keep his voice low, as such unchristian talk unnerved the sailors, even more so when it was coming from a white man, covered in heathen tattoos rather then a savage of darker skin tone and native to that way of thinking. Or was it the clash of tribal tattoos with his bushy cheeked and jolly face that really got to them? What ever the cause, there was no reason to give the deckhands, an excuse to trip him into the sea, when he and the first mate were changing places in the small whale boat, if they ever got the chance to do some fishing.

The Jerobaom continued towards the rapidly growing island, even as John and Starbuck smoked, blowing out rings of smoke. Even as the lookout scanned for the spouts of whales, a massive shape suddenly appeared, roughly twenty five yards off the starboard of the ship. A mighty cloud of breath and salt water burst from the square head of a gigantic sperm whale, who had reached a length of sixty feet and an age of sixty three. He had encountered a few other whalers in his youth and had always escaped unharmed, why should this one prove anymore danger? His mighty flukes lifted from the waves and stuck down hard, drenching the Jerobaom's bow, where the two harpooners stood.

'Well" said Starbuck blowing water from his pipe, as the ship exploded into cries and rushing bodies, "Our luck do be changin."

Irish Wolf wrote:Bowen forced his hand to slowly unwrap from around the hilt of his light saber, as he took in three slow breaths. That shot and seeing cavalrymen charging from the woods had been enough to send a surge of adrenaline through his entire system. He should have been angry at Sergeant Clarkson, for issuing orders like that, like many junior offices would have been but he was glad one of them had kept their head and not wanted a fight to free the body of stress.

"Very good Sergeant" said the Lieutenant, "Keep thinkin on your toes and I'll make you Company Sergeant Major before the week is done. Now did you say that they were already dead, from arrows in their backs? How odd, one would think that theirs friends would have shown up by now, ta help or investigate the shots or their foes ta loot the dead, if they were in a battle. Perhaps we have lurking highwaymen in those woods and they were scared off, like those yellow bellied frogs we fought, those half dozen years ago? Lets have a look at the dead, Staff Sergeant Clarkson."

Fully expecting Clarkson to follow him and not make a fuss about the field promotion, Bowen briskly walked over to the closest of the fallen knights, laying were he was flipped over. With a dissatisfied grunt, he squatted down and inspected the arming sword at the man's side. Even in it's sheath, it was plain that it was a far wider and heavier blade then even dragoons used. Such a weapon might look grand but was not the blade for the slender officer of light infantry.

Ignoring the sword, he pulled a pouch from the man's waist and pulled the drawstring open. Inside glittered several gold coins, each baring a strange face and marked in letters that resembled Latin. After pouring out the small pile of loot, the Lieutenant counted them back into the pouch, saving but one on his palm. After weighting the coin and staring at ti for a time, he tossed it at Clarkson.

"Barbaric" Bowen grunted, "Not a proper guinea nor shilling in the lot. I do believe we have a corporal who took the King's shilling after getting caught counterfeiting. We'll have ta have the man set up shop, once we have the time and make a real coin out of these pieces of slag."

Placing the money pouch down on the white sand, he grabbed the great helm in both hands and yanked it off the Knight's head. As the dead man's hair settle, he almost dropped the heavy steel. From the Knight's golden hair, a impossibly long ear jutted, tapering off into a point. He just had to touch it, to make sure that it real and not some part of a strange costume these native savages wore into battle.

"What devilry is this" he breathed, tugging on the none detachable ear.

Irish Wolf wrote:Tink
Tink
Tink

Raff's fingers idly scratched behind the ears of a fat cat of various splotches of color, which sat purring on his lap, as he watched three of his gunners laboring away up on deck, with hammer and chisel on red spheres. They had left several iron cannon balls in the ship's shot garlands during a small squall three days ago and now the round shot was covered in rust. The master gunner had not been pleased. Not only was that shot been more expensive then regular lead ones but at the general sloppiness of the crew.

Sudden a second cat, coal black of coat and being the sister of the splotched one, leaped into his lap, demanded his finger's attention. The Irish rogue smiled, lift his left hand to the head of the black cat and giving her just as much attention as her brother. He had named them Patches and Night, two years ago, on his first voyage about Fledgling. His heart had fallen slight to learn that their mother, a gray he named Ghost and their sister, a white named Snow, had died in the two years that he had been roaming over his native land.

"Sar" said Abílio, place a cannon ball into a carved out grove in the shot garland, "Can we go now? All them shot is clean-o-rust."

"Very good my lads" said Raff, shifting slightly on the barrel he had claimed as a seat, "And may teach ye ta leave me shot out in the rain. Go on and make sure that little fella Mike is still scrubbin the floor like I orders him ta."

"Aye Sar" the three said, almost in union and scattered below decks like cockroaches in the light.

Raff sighed softly and stared out over the salt water, still scratching his cats. That boy, Mike, was still a troubling enigma. Not only was he tight lipped about his last name but he still hadn't sung about just what he knew about the pirate's family. That by itself was bothersome, as the rebel had never gone anywhere near home nor sent message's that would have gone slinging his name around to them. So how did this lad know that Brain Kelly was his father and Sloane Kelly was his ma.

"I should let a rat loose in his pants" thought the master gunner darkly, "That would make the boy talk."