Pirates Return IC

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Alexa paused in her journey from the surgery, medical satchel in hand. She noticed one of the crew, maybe it was the bounty hunter, slowly heading downstairs. Though injured, he still appeared to be able to help mop up after the battle.

She walked over to him, pulling out some bandages as she neared. "I hope you're not going back downstairs to look after that yourself." Without waiting for a reply, she forced him to sit on a nearby crate and quickly bound up the cut with some herbs and bandages.

"Now, just where do you think you're going? The captain needs all the help he can get to get this ship back in working order. You can still walk, go help him!"

 

Alistair stared at the woman as she returned to the deck. Why should he follow her? Why should he lift a finger to do anything to help this captain salvage his ship and crew, when the captain hadn't yet found the time to so much as talk to him?

Because Three Swords brought you closer to LeBihan than you've ever been, that's why. He might be your best ever chance to bring in that scum. Is siding with a small enemy to catch a bigger one so bad?

Fortunately such ethical questions were easy to answer - it was always about bringing in the largest bounty possible with the least risk to himself. As long as Three Swords could bring him close to LeBihan to, he'd play along.

***

Matty sat up with a groan. He didn't remember anything since firing the shot, but the fact that he was still on the Pale Horse must've meant that he'd done it... either that or they were all ghosts, and he'd soon be seeing his Da.

"Good t' see ye awake agin, Matty, ye lazy bilge rat. Now that yer done yer nap, would ye care t' play something to boost our spirits?"

The piper grinned widely at Abbot's barked command. "Aye aye, Cap'n!"

The bugle had picked up a few new dents but should still be playable. The pipes were another matter - he really didn't know what all that blood would do to the leather bag. At least they weren't cracked. He filled his lungs and prepared to play.

Pain like knives bursting outward through his eyesockets filled his head. There was no way he could blow hard enough to sound the pipes, or the bugle. Perhaps a flute or whistle, but they were down in his hammock. There was nothing he could do except sing.

[ August 05, 2005, 15:22: Message edited by: Rallymama ]

 

Three Swords limped his way to his cabin, throwing himself down on the bed. He daren't lie down though, since the glass in his back was bad enough without getting it pushed in further.

He sighed with relief as the pressure was taken off his leg. "Send me the surgeon!" He shouted to no-one in particular. "And get rid of those Red Hand bastards!" He added, as he gingerly lifted the iron scabbards for his cutlass over his head, gritting his teeth as it scraped against the glass.

If there was a single Red Hand alive on deck, he'd have him tortured, beaten and humiliated, he swore.

 

Matty racked his brain... he needed a cheerful song that would get the men moving, but also one that would have them singing at least as much as he'd have to. A round, or a call-and-response... got it! He scrambled to the fo'scle deck and began singing as loudly as the throbbing in his head would allow, hoping that the men would be sufficiently absorbed in their own miseries to pick up the tune before they noticed that his voice sounded somewhat younger than the 15 years he claimed to have.

Oh, tell me, what is this sailboat's name?
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
Oh, tell me, tell me, what is her name?
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
Oh, tell me, who was it built this fine boat?
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
LeBihan, LeBihan, he built this boat
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
She's lovely aloft, and she's lovely below
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
But she's best on her back, as ye very well know
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
Oh, cheer up, Mary Ellen, and don't look so glum
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
On white stocking day you'll be drinking hot rum
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
I warn ye, sailors, I warn ye well
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
The old Malarky's a floating hell
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
Oh tell me again now, just who built this boat?
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
LeBihan, LeBihan, he built this boat
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
Oh tell me, what is this good boat's name?
(She's the good ship Malarkey)
Oh tell me again, boys, now what is her name?
(She's the good ship Malarkey)

[ August 05, 2005, 16:58: Message edited by: Rallymama ]

 

When Ricardo heard the Captain bellow for the surgeon, he turned towards the boy.

”You heard the Captain, boy,” he told Daniel, “Fetch the surgeon.”

The boy nodded, and Ricardo turned towards the black brute again. “Start the repairs,” he told then man briskly. Before the battle, the Spaniard had sent he man work and knew he was competent and taciturn, and would not need more instructions.

The man nodded, and Ricardo continued on his way; he needed to round up the survivors and put them to work.

Ignoring the song the piper had started, he snapped harsh orders that earned him more than a few glares. His shoulder was still hurting, now a dull throb; he knew it would need stitches, and it would be a wonder if he's be able to use his arm again for a while, but for now, he had a duty to perform.

He did not trust himself near the redhead anyway... so better wait, and let the fire that still smouldered in the pit of his stomach to die away. she could see to him later.

 

Jacques walked slowly around the deck, whistling softly to Matty's song, and let his eyes rove around the blood-stained boards. Here and there he spotted a glint of silver or gold plate, more often than not turning out to be a coat-button or belt buckle... He kept searching.

He had little to do before Alexa was free to see to his arm, and it wasn't serious enough to bother her yet. Jacques flexed it a little with a wince. It was stiffening up quickly now.

Something glinted against a dark shape lying motionless further along the deck - Jacques strode there as fast as his weary legs would carry him. Matty's high, clear voice lilted over the breeze, unconsciously making Jacques move in time with the song. Seeing the familiar scroll-work of his stiletto, he braced his foot against the man's ribcage and tugged the knife out. Cleaning the blade on the dead Hander's coat, he straightened up and tucked the stiletto into his own coat pocket. Two left.

Pausing for a moment to see which parts of the deck he hadn't checked yet, Jacques lent an ear to the melody still being sung strong by the young lad. Such a pretty voice, it was, pretty as a girl's at times... Jacques frowned in Matty's direction, trying to remember how old the boy was. He'd told him once he'd been playing music for over ten years, yet the lad didn't even have any stubble on his cheeks.

 

Zheng awoke but his eyes did not open. He was lying down and he tried to move. Nothing. Was he dead? He could hear his father shouting at him to do his chores. Then from nowhere,

"Student Hui, pick up your sword. Get on your feet. Your uselss aren't you. You coundn't hit water if you fell of a ship."

"Yes master, I try." Zhengs mind swirled and he was feeling less tired. He heard something else.

"Zheng....how could you? I am your master." the old man's voice cried in pain and excruciating agony as Zheng felt the blade twist.

"You are not my master. I am my master you son of a pig." shotued Zheng out loud as it came back. The pain and fatigue crashed down on him like a tidal wave on a lone house on sand. His eyes opened to see his cabin's roof. He smiled, "I am not dead....pity."

 

Matty was glad in his choice of song - once the men got rolling, it was self-sustaining with little help from him. They were even making up their own verses, based on the battle just completed. Aside from the pounding in his head, he really didn't want to be singing much longer.

***

Wandering across the deck and dumping bodies over the rail was almost fun for Alistair: he got to see first-hand how many fewer pirates there would be to remove from the seas. These men had no prices on their heads, that was reserved for the captains, and there was almost always a ready supply of rogues in any port, but there was still some level of visceral satisfaction in consigning another ex-pirate to a briny grave.

Not to mention the collection of trinkets and weaponry he was amassing. Most of it would go back into the Pale Horse's armoury or coffers, but every now and then a piece that caught his eye would disappear into a hidden pocket.

 

Alexa heard the captain's shout for her. She walked to his cabin as quickly as her injured side would allow.

Entering, she frowned as she took in the wounds Three Swords had recieved from the fight. "Captain, I need to look at your leg, then I'm going to need you to lie on your front, so I can look after your back."

 

Duece, came to laying in a heap on the deck. Useing his good arm he pushed himself to a seated position and with the help of another crewman he got to his feet. "Wheres, the surgeon?" He asked as he took a few unbalanced steps. He would have problems bracing himself with his left arm hanging useless at his side.

 

Confident that he had the men working to their greatest ability, Ricardo set to recovering his weapons. His rapier was easy enough to find, still where he’d dropped it. He cleaned it on the clothes of a dead Red Hand, before sliding it into its scabbard with a resounding screech of metal against metal.

Locating his daggers proved out to be a more difficult matter; two he found from the spot where various weapons had been collected, one was stuck in the ribs of a corpse, but the last of the ones he’d thrown, he could not find.

He swore profusely as he stalked across the deck, kicking over corpses trying to find the dagger. The dagger did not matter much to him – it was a good blade, one he had wielded for a long while now, and not irreplaceable. But…

It was the dagger he’d used in the knife-throwing competition.

Ricardo was not a sentimental man; to him, his rapier was a good blade, not the sword wielded b his father and father’s father. He placed no value on mementos, and yet…

That dagger mattered to him. Almost as much as the dagger he had inside his shirt, the one that never left him… the one thing that never failed to remained him of her. His lost Llamita…

He narrowed his eyes when he saw the bounty hunter heaving a corpse over the side; a very familiar corpse. He’d buried the dagger he was looking for in the man’s back when saving the boy's hide.

“Mr Allstair, my dagger if you please.”

 

Mom had left Daniel in the surgery when she went to the Captain's room. She had instructed him, "Clean the men's wounds, go ahead and stitch up the wounds that aren't too deep and you think you can handle. Bind the others, and put a tourniquet on if need be. Mark their condition with a charcoal on their foreheads, which ones you think need my attention the most, and I'll check your work when I get back."

She had said nothing about him being on board the Pale Horse, but then she didn't need to. She had looked at him, and he knew that maybe things would've been better off for him if he'd died in the fight. But there was too much work to do for now.

He started washing, sewing, and binding the survivors' wounds.

 

Seeing that Matty was no longer in full song, Jacques headed over to him, giving Alistair a quick warning not to let any of his knives go overboard - or into the man's coat pocket - as he passed by.

Still whistling snatches of the tune that the rest of the crew was carrying on less gently than Matty had been, Jacques stood near the musician, who was eyeing him warily.

"You have a fine voice, you know. I wish I could sing half as well." Jacques paused, but Matty did not reply. "I used to sing back in the church choir, in Provence. Père Guibourgé started talking about sending me to Notre-Dame in Paris to sing, but when one of the other boys mentioned what they do to those poor lads..." Jacques watched for Matty's reaction out of the corner of his eye as he looked out to sea.

 

"I were born in th' colonies, Sar, I dinna ken anythin' aboot wha' goes on in Paris. Now I got ter git oot o' th' sun afore me head blow like a cannonball." The piper scampered off as fast as his stiffening leg would allow, leaving Jacques to wonder if the flash he'd seen in the boy's eyes was fear, anger, or something else.

***

"You mean this one? Nice weapon." Alistair casually pulled Ricardo's dagger from his inner pocket and held it up so the sun glinted from the blade. "How do I know it's yours? Isn't it usually 'takers, keepers' with you piratey lot? That would make it mine."

 

Ricardo’s eyes flashed darkly. “Mr Alleister,” he snarled, “I suggest you give me that dagger. Now.”

How dare the oaf to lay a hand on the dagger? Ricardo’s shoulders tensed, his injuries flashing with renewed vigour.

“After all, Captain Abbot and quite a few crewmembers know that the dagger is mine,” he told the man coldly, his eyes scanning the folds on the man’s clothes. “How many witnesses can you give for all those those… trinkets you seem to have acquired?”

 

Trying to piece together what it was Matty had just said, Jacques turned back to find the lad gone without a trace. Annoyed, but slightly relieved at giving his ear a rest, Jacques left in search of his other two daggers.

He couldn't help but feel he was onto something, though... The boy had an accent that got worse when he was nervous, after all.

 

Bison had alot of work ahead of him. He had few men left who knew the carpentry trade to any useful degree, so it would be up to him to do most of the repairs. He sent a crewman with a message to the quartermaster informing him that they were low on building supplies and will need to dock within the next few days in order to stay afloat.

Maybe soon Bison would be able to see the surgeon about his wounds, but he had work to do first.

 

Three Swords lifted his leg for Alexa to look at. She peeled away the makeshift bandage to reveal a dark, mass of congealed blood and soot. "I took the bullet out earlier - just clean it - There's some rum in the drawer over there for that - and plug the hole." He said, wanting to wash the blood from him and change his clothes.

Through the hole that was once his cabin door, he could see the bounty hunter Alistair searching through the bodies, "You can leave the loot alone. Until you sign the Articles, all you're entitled to is any bounties you collect." He looked down at his leg again, "Fix it up, lass." He paused "This is going to give me a bastard of a fever, isn't it?"

 

"Fair enough, Captain." Alistair said, shrugged, and turned back to Ricardo. He looked at the nice once more and threw it up in the air, watching it spin, and caught it as it landed. He handed it over, hilt first, to Ricardo.
"Here you are. No need to get angry about it. As for those trinkets -" he glanced down at the various pistols in his coat - "- well...I don't think they'll be complaining, being dead or in jail and all."

 

The Spaniard smiled coldly. ”Dead men tell no tales, Mr. Alistair,” he told them man. He kept all signs of discomfort from his face as he slid the dagger back into his boot; it would not do to show just how much pain his shoulder was giving him.

Without acknowledging the bounty hunter any further, he began to make his way across the deck; he still had much to do while the captain was getting treated.