Psalms to the Taffrail
Title: Psalms to the Taffrail
-Twenty-fourth Installment of Several-
(First)
(Second)
(Third)
(Fourth)
(Fifth)
(Sixth)
(Seventh)
(Eighth)
(Ninth)
(Tenth)
(Eleventh)
(Twelfth)
(Thirteenth)
(Fourteenth)
(Fifteenth)
(Sixteenth)
(Seventeenth)
(Eighteenth)
(Nineteenth)
(Twentieth)
(Twenty-first)
(Twenty-second)
(Twenty-third)
Rating: G, really.
Loves to Srettan (silverjet747)! Because she is incredible! And I love her!
...A shoe landed next to its partner, who had fallen to the wood without any appointment to meet on the way down, no hat to dislodge.
In a matter of seconds, half of the French prize crew had gathered around their fallen captain. Bill and Mirely rushed forward and began swinging. Fists connected, desperation sent power coursing through, and the two of them knocked enough French sailors aside for the shattered extended fragments of a second, long enough that lightning could flash and the two Mariettas could pull Peroché's pistols and sword from his belt.
The pistols they each cocked instantly and trained on the swarming frogs, and the sword Bill tossed to Greene who had shot down the ratlines as though the rain itself were oil on him. "Back away, or you're begging for a ball!" Bill's voice thundered strong across the frenzy, but the narrow quaver lurking just beneath it warned that he would go through with his word. "He's not dead yet; back away!"
A single Frenchman looked up at him, no more than a boy really, and grit his teeth so that his panicked eyes could appear baleful as he commanded them to. Slowly, he turned back to his captain. Bill stamped his heel on the deck and the frogs sprung back as though the sharp crack! were lightning striking their captain. Bill smiled. "Jumpy, aren't ye? Next time that will be a real shot, mind!" He twitched his gun to the left, Mirely spotted him and echoed to the right, and the Frenchmen parted. "Greene, to me." The thin twine of a man slunk over, and Turner handed him his pistol. "My back," he warned, then stepped between the quivering walls of blue coats and red-medallioned hats to the collapsed captain. He lifted the greasy head; checked for blood. Pulled an eyelid open; watched the wild sphere roll around in the socket while the head lolled on his lap. But the barrel chest was still heaving. Bill stood and threw the man off, at the same instant reaching back for his pistol, which Greene placed in his palm. He pointed it at each of the men in turn.
"Clear this lump off the decks. Vite!" Five of the men flew to Peroché's sides and began to lift him; the baleful boy sailor was one of those who remained distant. Five pair of arms and shoulders hoisted the French captain up, like so many sacks of provision, and they began to shuffle grudgingly below. "Red, go with them!"
"Moi, monsieur?" The lightning gave the boy's lifting head a choppy effect, and his hair seemed to be a flame trapped in rainwater-moonglow ice.
"Yes, you! Oui. Go along!" Turner started forward and jerked his pistol, and the boy shot to his feet and scurried to join his crewmates and his incapacitated captain. "'Atta way, Frenchie." Bill granted a slow smile to the oilcloth cloak on the redhead's shoulders. He had a good feeling about this one, and hoped the mutiny wouldn't have soured him too badly. "Young lad…"
"Whassat, Bill?" Turner hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud, so when Mirely tilted his head in and asked, Bill shook his head.
"Nothing, Joe. Let's get our ship back."
"Aye, Bill."
Dr. Clarence Garside was in his cabin when he heard a small herd of domestic pachyderms stumbling down the hatchway. "By God's teeth…?" He ducked his head out, and soon the rest of his body leapt after. "What happened here?" As he guided the gaggle to his converted operating table, they all tried to answer at once, in French and in English, each louder than the other. "Quiet, damn you all!" The doctor's voice was a harsh hiss and he waved his hand at the drawn curtain. "Concussion just back there."
"Well there is one here as well, monsieur." The boy's voice was clear and flutish with a well-turned accent, and Garside blinked at him curiously before replying.
"Yes, yes there seems to be. Lay him here. No, no, up more. Up, up, lift, damn you! …There." Garside twisted the head side to side, lifted it, probed the skull with his fingertips, drew them away clean, and sighed. "There doesn't appear to be any external lesion, at least."
"Ca c'est bon," the young boy sighed, and the doctor grit his teeth. It was not to the boy that he objected; the lad seemed young enough that he did not display the intolerable pride of the French, nor the sneer, nor the lack of discipline. Dr. Garside, in fact, was beginning to take to the youth. It was the way his more aged, larger comrades grumbled and wheezed their relief that tortured Clarence's nerves.
"Must you all hover here?" The doctor looked up from his charge and shoo-ed the frogs away, eyes narrow and hands flopping. "Back, back there now, yes, better. My God." He returned to the table and prodded at a few joints, then paused. "Mister… erm. With the red hair, would you mind checking on my other patient? I fear your mates and yourself may have posed a disruption."
"Oui, bien sûr.." The brown-eyed boy hastened past the foot of the table and slipped behind the curtain, which quivered in his wake before he stilled it with his hand.
***
"…and after that was the time I came face-to-snout with my very own very first sea serpent…"
"Mm, did you really?" James talked around the inking stick clamped between his teeth as he tilted Jack's wrist one way, then the other. "Look, do you want the sun setting or rising?"
Jack blinked and looked down at his forearm, then at James, incredulously. "You can tell?"
James lifted a corner of his mouth. "No, not terribly. More rays, I suppose. Lay back or you'll get yourself dizzy."
"Yes, mother."
"And rolling your eyes like that won't help either."
"J, shut your jaw! You are not the older of the two of us."
James began to laugh lightly from the top of his chest. "You always say that, but sometimes I wonder. …What do you suppose they're doing on deck?"
"Oh, I don't know, riding out the storm, same as we are."
"Hmh."
There was a great crash, James started, and Jack howled. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph! 'S my arm still on?"
"Yes, Jack, it's fine. My apologies. I oughtn't startle so easily."
"Like a damned bloody rabbit, this one," Jack muttered, then craned his neck and hoisted his eyebrows up to catch a glimpse of the tattoo without breaking contact with the pillow. "What'd it do?"
James smirked and pushed a small laugh out through his nose. "Well it'll need a bit bigger bill, now."
Jack scowled. "Oh, you laugh, but it's not your arm that's the pincushion! 'It'll keep you awake, Jack.' 'It'll keep your attention, Jack.' Well here's my attention now, lad, and I'm well awake."
"Oh do calm down, please." A bit longer of James humming, and Jack humming, and Jack every so often hissing when James hit a particularly tender spot, and James gripped the stick between his teeth again and examined his handiwork thus far.
That was about when the redheaded French lad came through the curtain.
[TRS]: I didn't think any were needed for this, but if you're lost ask
Words I Got To Use In This Installment: coursing, ratlines, baleful, pachyderms, face-to-snout
My Two Cents: I don't know medicine. I wrote this at 4:30 in the morning. I like it, but it could well be the epitaph of accuracy. I shamelessly beg you to alert me if and where it is. Other than that... fun, huh? That's what I thought. (P.S. the redhead is not Barbossa) Feedback, you know, makes me happy.
Ta,
-M
-Twenty-fourth Installment of Several-
(First)
(Second)
(Third)
(Fourth)
(Fifth)
(Sixth)
(Seventh)
(Eighth)
(Ninth)
(Tenth)
(Eleventh)
(Twelfth)
(Thirteenth)
(Fourteenth)
(Fifteenth)
(Sixteenth)
(Seventeenth)
(Eighteenth)
(Nineteenth)
(Twentieth)
(Twenty-first)
(Twenty-second)
(Twenty-third)
Rating: G, really.
Loves to Srettan (silverjet747)! Because she is incredible! And I love her!
...A shoe landed next to its partner, who had fallen to the wood without any appointment to meet on the way down, no hat to dislodge.
In a matter of seconds, half of the French prize crew had gathered around their fallen captain. Bill and Mirely rushed forward and began swinging. Fists connected, desperation sent power coursing through, and the two of them knocked enough French sailors aside for the shattered extended fragments of a second, long enough that lightning could flash and the two Mariettas could pull Peroché's pistols and sword from his belt.
The pistols they each cocked instantly and trained on the swarming frogs, and the sword Bill tossed to Greene who had shot down the ratlines as though the rain itself were oil on him. "Back away, or you're begging for a ball!" Bill's voice thundered strong across the frenzy, but the narrow quaver lurking just beneath it warned that he would go through with his word. "He's not dead yet; back away!"
A single Frenchman looked up at him, no more than a boy really, and grit his teeth so that his panicked eyes could appear baleful as he commanded them to. Slowly, he turned back to his captain. Bill stamped his heel on the deck and the frogs sprung back as though the sharp crack! were lightning striking their captain. Bill smiled. "Jumpy, aren't ye? Next time that will be a real shot, mind!" He twitched his gun to the left, Mirely spotted him and echoed to the right, and the Frenchmen parted. "Greene, to me." The thin twine of a man slunk over, and Turner handed him his pistol. "My back," he warned, then stepped between the quivering walls of blue coats and red-medallioned hats to the collapsed captain. He lifted the greasy head; checked for blood. Pulled an eyelid open; watched the wild sphere roll around in the socket while the head lolled on his lap. But the barrel chest was still heaving. Bill stood and threw the man off, at the same instant reaching back for his pistol, which Greene placed in his palm. He pointed it at each of the men in turn.
"Clear this lump off the decks. Vite!" Five of the men flew to Peroché's sides and began to lift him; the baleful boy sailor was one of those who remained distant. Five pair of arms and shoulders hoisted the French captain up, like so many sacks of provision, and they began to shuffle grudgingly below. "Red, go with them!"
"Moi, monsieur?" The lightning gave the boy's lifting head a choppy effect, and his hair seemed to be a flame trapped in rainwater-moonglow ice.
"Yes, you! Oui. Go along!" Turner started forward and jerked his pistol, and the boy shot to his feet and scurried to join his crewmates and his incapacitated captain. "'Atta way, Frenchie." Bill granted a slow smile to the oilcloth cloak on the redhead's shoulders. He had a good feeling about this one, and hoped the mutiny wouldn't have soured him too badly. "Young lad…"
"Whassat, Bill?" Turner hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud, so when Mirely tilted his head in and asked, Bill shook his head.
"Nothing, Joe. Let's get our ship back."
"Aye, Bill."
Dr. Clarence Garside was in his cabin when he heard a small herd of domestic pachyderms stumbling down the hatchway. "By God's teeth…?" He ducked his head out, and soon the rest of his body leapt after. "What happened here?" As he guided the gaggle to his converted operating table, they all tried to answer at once, in French and in English, each louder than the other. "Quiet, damn you all!" The doctor's voice was a harsh hiss and he waved his hand at the drawn curtain. "Concussion just back there."
"Well there is one here as well, monsieur." The boy's voice was clear and flutish with a well-turned accent, and Garside blinked at him curiously before replying.
"Yes, yes there seems to be. Lay him here. No, no, up more. Up, up, lift, damn you! …There." Garside twisted the head side to side, lifted it, probed the skull with his fingertips, drew them away clean, and sighed. "There doesn't appear to be any external lesion, at least."
"Ca c'est bon," the young boy sighed, and the doctor grit his teeth. It was not to the boy that he objected; the lad seemed young enough that he did not display the intolerable pride of the French, nor the sneer, nor the lack of discipline. Dr. Garside, in fact, was beginning to take to the youth. It was the way his more aged, larger comrades grumbled and wheezed their relief that tortured Clarence's nerves.
"Must you all hover here?" The doctor looked up from his charge and shoo-ed the frogs away, eyes narrow and hands flopping. "Back, back there now, yes, better. My God." He returned to the table and prodded at a few joints, then paused. "Mister… erm. With the red hair, would you mind checking on my other patient? I fear your mates and yourself may have posed a disruption."
"Oui, bien sûr.." The brown-eyed boy hastened past the foot of the table and slipped behind the curtain, which quivered in his wake before he stilled it with his hand.
***
"…and after that was the time I came face-to-snout with my very own very first sea serpent…"
"Mm, did you really?" James talked around the inking stick clamped between his teeth as he tilted Jack's wrist one way, then the other. "Look, do you want the sun setting or rising?"
Jack blinked and looked down at his forearm, then at James, incredulously. "You can tell?"
James lifted a corner of his mouth. "No, not terribly. More rays, I suppose. Lay back or you'll get yourself dizzy."
"Yes, mother."
"And rolling your eyes like that won't help either."
"J, shut your jaw! You are not the older of the two of us."
James began to laugh lightly from the top of his chest. "You always say that, but sometimes I wonder. …What do you suppose they're doing on deck?"
"Oh, I don't know, riding out the storm, same as we are."
"Hmh."
There was a great crash, James started, and Jack howled. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph! 'S my arm still on?"
"Yes, Jack, it's fine. My apologies. I oughtn't startle so easily."
"Like a damned bloody rabbit, this one," Jack muttered, then craned his neck and hoisted his eyebrows up to catch a glimpse of the tattoo without breaking contact with the pillow. "What'd it do?"
James smirked and pushed a small laugh out through his nose. "Well it'll need a bit bigger bill, now."
Jack scowled. "Oh, you laugh, but it's not your arm that's the pincushion! 'It'll keep you awake, Jack.' 'It'll keep your attention, Jack.' Well here's my attention now, lad, and I'm well awake."
"Oh do calm down, please." A bit longer of James humming, and Jack humming, and Jack every so often hissing when James hit a particularly tender spot, and James gripped the stick between his teeth again and examined his handiwork thus far.
That was about when the redheaded French lad came through the curtain.
[TRS]: I didn't think any were needed for this, but if you're lost ask
Words I Got To Use In This Installment: coursing, ratlines, baleful, pachyderms, face-to-snout
My Two Cents: I don't know medicine. I wrote this at 4:30 in the morning. I like it, but it could well be the epitaph of accuracy. I shamelessly beg you to alert me if and where it is. Other than that... fun, huh? That's what I thought. (P.S. the redhead is not Barbossa) Feedback, you know, makes me happy.
Ta,
-M