Pirates Return IC

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LeBihan threw close his cabin doors, the glass pains rattling and threatening to shatter. He swore as loudly as his voice would allow. He pulled off his sword belt, hurling it into the corner to clatter against the floor.

In all, forty seven years of his life, he had never seen such a turnaround in a battle. The Pale Horse had been so close to being his! The ship had been in his grasp, but somehow it had slipped through his fingers. He couldn't even give chase! With the main sail down, all he could do was drift.

He swore again, upending the desk in his fury. Dammit! He spun deftly on his heel and threw the doors open again to survey the damage. The Main Mast had split at the bottom, only a few tattered remain holding it into place. He looked over the side to see the main sail floating on the water. "Handers!" He shouted, "I want rowboats lowered and ropes attached to the top of the mast. Now!" he ordered. Men leapt at his words, moving to lower the rowboats into the water and diving into the sea to attach long lengths of rope to the top of the mast.

"Good! Now I want every man in a rowboat. We're going to lift it out of the water and straighten her up. You two," he pointed to two of the crewmen, "Make sure the mast comes up into the right place. Secure it with as much rope and tar we have. We need the mast to hold whilst we return to port." He moved across to a rowboat, fully manned by crewmen, "Row with all your strength, boys, or we'll be adrift for days, maybe weeks - and we don't have the supplies to keep us alive that long." LeBihan stepped back, fixing his stare on the mast, "Row boys, row!" he ordered, stroking his long, grey moustache.

At first there was nothing, then there was a groan as the mast began to move, "That's it, that's it! Keep going!" LeBihan shouted.

The men continued to row, throwing every ounce of strength their tired bodies would allow and every time they pulled on the oars, the mast came a little higher. After twenty long minues of rowing, the mast reached it's pinnacle. "Hold it there, boys!" LeBihan ordered, "Secure it!" he shouted to the two crewmen left on board. As swiftly as they could, the men threw tar over the broken mast and ran rope around it, throwing on more tar with each wrap. By the time they ere done, the deck was black and the rope stuck out a full foot wide and eight tall. "Well done. Now let's see if it holds."

 

Alistair staggered to move forward a few steps, but his recently-bandaged leg gave in and he slid down the side instead. Chuckling, he picked out a cigar from his coat, slid it into his mouth, and lit it with a match. As he smoked, he reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of folded paper, well-preserved despite some's apparent age. He went through them and took out one.

It was a bounty notice for Francois LeBihan, the most recent one. The bounty was at 1,500 gold pieces. Dead or alive.

Smiling, he pushed himself up again and leaned by the side of the ship, using his musket to keep himself steady.
"Francois LeBihan," he muttered. "I'll get you yet."

 

Ricardo froze. Had he heard right? LeBihan?

He cursed as he spun around, and with a few quick strides he was standing next to the bounty hunter. “Did you just say leBihan?” he snarled,“ Francois LeBihan?”

He feverently hoped he'd misheard. His luck could not be that rotten.

 

Alistair looked at Ricardo, surprised. Surely he must have heard the name of the enemy captain during battle...?
"Yes, LeBihan." he said. "We were fighting his men just a moment ago, if you recall."

 

”I did not have a chance for an introduction,” Ricardo spat. This time. . “Are you after him?”

Ricardo did not want to think of possible reasons for leBihan coming after the Pale Horse; the idea of the captain having incurred the wrath of the Red Hands was much preferable…and far more likely.

 

"After him?" Alistair gave this a brief thought. "You could say that. That's not why I came on board, though. I'm after somebody else now..."

He pulled out the list of bounties again, but a sudden gale swept them from his hands and across the decks. Swearing loudly, he hopped from one spot to another, trying to pick them up.

 

Ricardo smirked as the bounty hunter tried to gather his precious missives; he did not lift a finger to help, merely pushed the one that landed on his boot away like a piece of trash – which to him, ti was.

Until he caught a familiar name.

He clenched his hands into fists, preventing a surprised oath. He had thought that the bounty had long expired – that ship had sunk years and years ago, and he knew quite well that the Captain was dead. And yet…

His eyes narrowed. He would have to keep a wary eye on the bounty hunter. Just in case.

 

Alistair hobbled to where Ricardo is and picked the bounty up from the deck, giving it a glance.
"Hmm." he muttered. "Now here's a man who definitely deserved to die."

With that, he seized his gun and started his journey downstairs again, intending to get some rest.

 

Alexa smiled wryly at Three Swords' words. "You might, Captain, but if we are lucky, these medicines will help stave off any infection." She was busily cleaning out the wound and started to fill it with various medicinal herbs. Reaching for a bandage, she bound the wound tightly enough to prevent more bleeding, but not so tight it would cut off circulation.

"There, the leg is finished. Now, I'm going to need to take a look at your back. If you could just lay down on your front, I'll try to get this fixed up as quickly as possible."

 

After carefully checking every detail of his firearms, making sure they were loaded, cleaned, unclogged, and otherwise optimized, Alistair sent several minutes lying and resting, a lit cigar in his mouth. Sure, the articles probably stated that smoking in the cabins were prohibited, but he haven't actually signed it yet.

Now feeling a bit hungry, Alistair climbed up from his bed and headed towards the kitchens, hoping to find an apple or some such.

 

The battle had been tough for Meatloaf. He's nearly had a heart attack when the bells were sounded. But with years of experience behind him he was able to bolt shut the kitchen door before the action started. The rest of the battle had gone by without incident. There had been the odd bang on the door, with people yelling at him to get up and help, but other than that he had had a relaxing time. And yet another feast cooked up! Any good cook knew quite well that after a fight like the ones that the rest of the crew most likely just had a good feed was required! So been a dutiful cook he had remained below, away from the fight, cooking the best feast he'd made since leaving shore... all the long time ago.

Finally the sounds of the battle above had died. Unbolting the door he knew shortly the first of the crew would be down - and boy what a surprise they would get! Just as he was carrying the last platter over to the lare table the boat rocked violently, as it hit a large wave. Meatloaf's left leg gave way underneith him and he sunk to the solid wooden floor. The platter, with it's fish and all, flew across the room at rocket speeds, almost hitting the door as it swung open.

 

An unidentified flying object flew at Alistair, who instinctively went for his blunderbuss as the object went splat on his face. He could hear someone shouting apologies, but couldn't see anything. As he wondered briefly whether or not this was a ploy by the enemy to blind him and debated firing, he tasted the fish pie.

With trembling hands, he took the cigar out of his mouth and wiped his eyes sufficiently to see the old cook near him.

"Interesting welcome," he said slowly. "Can I perhaps have an apple?"

 

Meatloaf glances nervously at the guns nearing Alistair's hands. The acursed bounty hunter! Of all the people to walk through that door. Just my luck, Meatloaf thought. Well, atleast there's no price on my head. Must be greatful for the small things. Quickly compossing himself Meatloaf muttered another quick apology to the Marksman, while trying to pull his eyes away from those legendary guns.

Fear quickly turned to surprise as Alistair's words finally ticked over in the cook's mind. "An.. an... apple?" Meatloaf stammered. In all his long years serving on ships like this, never had he heard such a foolish request! What kind of pirate eats apples after such battles?! Surprise quickly transformed itself into anger, but then anger was replaced shortly afterwards with fear again, as Meatloaf remembered that Alistair was no real pirate. "Of course sir!" he blurted out, and darted off into the back room to fetch an apple.

Returning a few moments later with a fresh, green apple in his hand, and an old rag in the other Meatloaf hobbled over towards the Bounty Hunter and handed him the rags to help him clean his face. "Sorry again, sir. These legs of mine ain't what they use to be."

 

Matty escaped form Jacques as quickly as he could. All of the crew was still on deck, either cleaning up the carnage left by the recent battle or being part of said carnage, so there should be a rare moment privacy below to change out his tattered and bloodied clothes. Even his chosen corner felt too exposed at times.

Too bad this was the least-snug of his shirts, but it simply had to be washed. He tugged on a garment that was far less comfortable and sat down under his hammock to clean his pipes. If he had to go without as much drinking water today so be it, but using salt water for this task would guarantee their ruin. All he could do was hope that he'd gotten enough of the blood out of the leather in time.

That done, he pulled out the dizi and began to practice.

 

"No matter. Don't worry yourself..." Alistair said, as he slowly washed the pie away with the rag. Finally, after a while, he managed to get them all aside from a piece or two lodged in his hair. He hoped that nobody else noticed. Looking at his wet pie-stained cigar, he raised his hand and flung it into the waste bin and crunched on the apple. He studied Meatloaf up and down.
"So what's your name then?" he asked, as he took a bite. "And you should be lucky it wasn't that Spaniard who came in. He'd probably gut you. Annoying fellow."

 

Three Swords grunted as he stood up and pulled his jacket off. He heard it tear in places on some of the longer, sharper pieces of glass. He cursed, that was only one of two overcoats he had on board.

Slowly, he lay down on his front, resting his head on the pillow. "You can start."

Abbot gritted his teeth harder each time a shard of glass was pulled from his back. He heard his teeth grind and he tried to relax.

 

Zheng awoke once more, he had drifted off to sleep again. Dreaming of nothing in particular. He groaned as he sat up. The stitches in his side tightened but he ritted his teeth through the pain and struggled to his feet.

He sat at the edge of the bed and threw himself to his feet. He swayed as he stood, his body still aching. He strapped on his scabbard before realising the sword was not there, he panicked. He staggered to the door and rested on the frame looking along the corridor. He followed it and found himself on the deck. He looked around at his crewmates not one of them was uninjured. He looked around the deck and saw his sword lying where he had collapsed. He smiled and sighed in releif. He picked it up and cleaned it using a cloth before replacing it in his scabbard. He could hear Matty playing the dizi he had leant him. He moved towards the sound.

He sa Matty playing with the chinese flute. Zheng walked towards him. "Your coming on well with that," he said before sitting cross-legged in front of the young boy. "Go on, keep playing."

 

Although he was pleased by Zheng's words - this dizi was quite different from his own flute, what with the odd scale and all, so he had no way to tell if he really was doing well or not - Matty couldn't smile without breaking his embouchure. He nodded briefly instead.

At least it's Zheng instead of that nosy Frenchman. Maybe if I keep my distance from that one he'll forget all about me.

 

Ricardo’s face was grim when he approached Captain Abbot. His news would not be good; out of a hundred men, less than half had survived, many of them severely injured. He had no doubt that by sunrise, the death toll would be higher. Even worse, the ship’s stores had suffered badly; cannon fire and the fact that the Pale Horse had already undergone repairs before the attack were making matters bleak.

His shoulder sent another flare of pain through him, and he gritted his teeth. The makeshift bandage he wore was getting soaked with blood; he knew it needed to be stitched sooner or later. Briefly, he wondered how much the new injury would hamper his already-scarred shoulder.

“Captain?”

 

Three Swords winced as Alexa poured a hot liquid over his back. "Damn it." He cursed through gritted teeth. Alexa had stiched the worst of the cuts on his bac and she said this would disinfect the wounds. Through the pain, he heard Ricardo's voice in his ear.

"What's the problem, Master Santiago?" he said, angrier than he had meant. He turned onto his side. "Speak up. Then get that shoulder seen to."