This is the beginning of the BSG-As-Pirate-Adventure-Story AU I started working on and it's pure crack.
0o0o0o
The isle of St. Estrella de la Batalla was a tiny, steamy alcove lying six leagues off of the comparatively huge island of Eustatia, which had the distinction of being an entire mile wide in some areas. But St. Estrella was even smaller than that and it was upon this sliver of land in the blue waters of the Caribbean that four women held fort in the once grand house of the Lord Mayor, who now lay dead in the garden, buried haphazardly beneath a drooping patch of white azaleas.
The good Lord Mayor Adar was dead, along with most of the men killed or conscripted by the pirate hordes who were now overrunning the island on a disturbingly regular basis. He left behind his mansion along with his erstwhile former mistress and the de facto mayor of St. Estrella, Lady Laura Roslin, who directed the young ladies in her care in the fine art of throwing boiling water from the roof, sprinkling the walkways with rusted nails and generally making enough of a nuisance of themselves to fend off any pirate foolish enough to wander their way.
It didn't hurt that a certain Miss Kara Thrace now residing in the care of Her Ladyship was a crack shot with the Mayor's old musket. She had a relatively good aim and when she missed, it wasn't much of a problem as her knife-throwing skills made up for what her shooting skills lacked. They'd been burying dead sea robbers for weeks thanks to Miss Thrace's fine marksmanship and the area had been kept relatively clear of pirates for the past month or so, with only one or two a week meeting his fate on the mansion steps.
Unfortunately, the burial of dead pirates was a tiresome, laborious task that caused much complaint among the ladies, each of which had to draw straws for the job, the short one falling more often than not to Mrs. Ellen Tigh, who whined so much and so loudly about her blistered hands and dirty hems, Miss Thrace had to be stopped more than once from aiming the musket in her direction and firing.
But bury them Ellen did, eventually, with one hand on the spade and the other on a rum bottle, which was her reward for a job well-done.
All right, half well-done, as most of the time the departed's feet - sometimes a hand or two - were left sticking up from the ground, but she drank the rum with such a fierce possessiveness and behaved so belligerently in the aftermath, no one dared complain about her shoddy gravedigging skills.
The other two ladies among them, Miss Anastasia Dualla and Miss Jane Cally did the rest of the work, as well as taking turns keeping lookout from the roof, with a spyglass handily absconded from one of the unlucky buccaneers who'd made the fatal mistake of wandering their way.
It was then, on one fine blue sky morning, that Miss Dualla called from the mansion's crows nest to the ladies below. "There's a ship out there!" she cried. "And I don't think it's a pirate ship."
The other ladies ran up immediately. The thought of rescue had almost been turned into a long forgotten dream, but hope came rushing back at Dualla's proclamation. They fought for a few minutes over the spyglass, pulling and scratching at each to get a look, stopping only when Lady Roslin calmly reached in between them and took the glass herself.
"Hmmm," she said, squinting through the lens.
"Hmmm?" the girls asked excitedly.
"Hmmm," Lady Roslin repeated, gracefully closing the spyglass. "I think we might prepare for welcome company, ladies. Now, go off and clean up. We can't meet our heroes looking like ..." She glanced at Mrs. Tigh with a slight frown. "Something the cat dragged in."
Mrs. Tigh's lip twitched, but she said nothing. "What are you talking about? What heroes? All that's out there are lousy pirates, our stupid husbands ..."
"Your stupid husband," Miss Thrace interjected, her fingers playing with the handle of her knife.
"Oh, I'm sorry, that's right, I'm the only married lady here," Mrs. Tigh smirked. "My apologies, I'm not used to the company of so many spinsters." She spat out the last work and threw a nasty look at Lady Roslin who ignored her. "But, as I was saying ... there is no one out there we'd be interested in seeing, for if there were we'd be hearing a battle ..."
As she uttered the word 'battle', a huge boom rolled across the ocean, echoing over the island.
"Canons! Real canons!" Miss Cally cried. "The Navy has come!"
"The Navy has come!" Miss Dualla repeated happily, already smoothing back her long, dark hair. A high-born native West Indian girl, she was arguably the most vain of the ladies there, even if the prettiest was a contestable matter. She certainly had the nicest dresses --canary yellow and sky blue frocks styled in the latest fashions with waists so small, Mrs. Tigh had practically turned purple from holding her breath while trying to sneak herself into them. "Do you think it's the English Navy or the Dutch Navy? I do love a Dutch gentleman. So tall and sincere."
Miss Thrace's eye-rolling was surprisingly rude. "Can we concentrate on getting rescued before we plan the wedding?"
Miss Dualla pouted at her and shrugged. Miss Thrace had always struck her as a rather queer creature, more interested in fighting and shooting and killing things than in her appearance which would have been quite nice, if she'd bothered to take the slightest care of it. She'd even shorn off her long blonde locks, hacking them off with her knife, as they'd gotten in the way of her shooting -- a shocking betrayal of all things feminine.
It was quite disturbing, but Miss Dualla supposed it took all sorts of people to make up the world, even ones like Miss Thrace. Besides, if Miss Thrace didn't care to catch a gentlemen, Miss Dualla reasoned, that meant all the more would be available for herself, which was fine with her.
Lady Roslin sighed. "Ladies, let's prepare to leave. It would do well to be ready, no matter what the case." She made a 'shooing motion with her hands. "Off with all of you and dear Mrs. Tigh, please don't drink yourself unconscious this afternoon. We don't know if there will be a man aboard strong enough to carry you to shore and I would so hate leaving you behind."
The entire left side of Mrs. Tigh's face convulsed at this, but she said nothing. The other girls quickly ran off to their bedrooms with Miss Thrace lagging behind somewhat, looking not at all convinced that saviors had finally come, no matter how adamant Lady Roslin seemed. But, if forced on the matter, she would have to admit that Lady Roslin was right more often than not.
They would all find out soon enough.
0o0o0o
The good ship, H.M.S. Galactica, had anchored a mile from the shore of St. Estrella, much to the annoyance of its admiral, Sir William Adama. The storm that blew them nearly two-hundred miles off-course was a whim of malfunctioning navigation devices according to his Officer of the Watch, Mr. Gaeta, who stared at the deck and stammered his findings when they found themselves not in the pleasant coves of Haiti, but in the pirate-infested waters of the North Caribbean.
Not to mention the accidental firing of the port canon, the fifth time this week, damn it to hells.
"How are we going to fix this?" he'd thundered, forcing Mr. Gaeta to wince in terror. "Mr. Tigh!"
"Yessi'r," his first mate slurred, obviously unaware that nine in the morning was an inappropriate hour to be inebriated. He'd wandered up from the head with his pants still unbuttoned and his head uncovered, which was an improvement, at least over the time he stumbled onto the deck stark naked for all the crew, the seagulls and a horrified school of dolphins to see. "What ho', Old Man?"
"Saul," Admiral Adama said -- sotto voce, or 'soft voiced' in Italian, which is a strange saying, as if there's any place in the world where people do not speak softly the majority of the time, that would be Italy -- "Saul," he said, "Pull yourself together and for the love of God, zip your pants."
Tigh looked down, but made no movement to correct himself. He'd always been an advocate of letting things 'fly freely down there'. "Whoops."
"Gentlemen, we are obviously not where we are supposed to be," Adama addressed the now gathered crew, scowling deeply. "As you know, we've been planning a shore leave prior to my retirement for the past six months. Needless to say, I'd like to take this leave before I'm forced to retire, so if you'd all be so kind to ..." He paused, letting the request sink in, before snarling "Get ... us ... out ... of ... here."
The crew scrambled, all except for Mr. Gaeta who was examining the island through his scope with a curious expression on his face. "Um, sir ..."
Adama, who was distracted by efforts to exhort Tigh to zip up via emphatic gestures, snapped his reply. "What?"
"I see a white flag flying over the island. Well, it's sort of a flag ..."
"What do you mean by 'sort of a flag', Mr. Gaeta?"
"Um..."
"Spit out it! I have no time for gee-jawing."
"It's underwear, sir. Flying from the island's government house."
Adama stopped trying to make Tigh decent. "What do you mean?"
"Ladies' underwear, sir," Mr. Gaeta stammered, his face glowing in a spectacular shade of crimson. "There are ladies' underwear flying from a flagpole atop the mansion."
"What the devil?" Adama took the spyglass. Sure enough, there they were; lady's bloomers, white and ballooning in the fair trade winds. "Huh." He lowered the glass and scratched his chin. "If I had to guess, I suppose it's a signal for help. Probably from a lady. I'd also suppose that it behooves us as gentlemen and officers of Her Majesty's Navy to assist those in need, especially a lady." He sighed; enjoying a cold drink while lying on a hammock in Haiti was looking less and less a likely possibility. "Unfortunately."
"We can always just sail on, sir," Gaeta whispered, obviously unnerved by the sight of women's undergarments flapping around in broad daylight.
"Did you say there are women are up there? Without underwear on?" Tigh yelled loudly, grabbing the glass. He tottered to the ship's rail, nearly falling over it in his haste to get a look. He turned back with a wild expression of glee on his face. "Hells and rum, Old Man! What are we waiting here for? Let's sail!"
Adama sighed heavily. This was going to be the worst retirement any officer of Her Majesty Navy ever had. "Someone get my son out of his quarters," he ordered, knowing that mid-morning was his son Lee's favorite time to brood moodily in front of the mirror for an hour or so. It helped him digest lunch or something of the sort, his father supposed -- or at least that was the kindest explanation he could give it. "And get the small boats ready for shore. We invade at noon."
Tigh yanked his flask from its ankle holder and held it aloft. "To the ladies of St. Estrella. Here we come, girls!"
0o0o0o
"That was my last good pair!" Mrs Tigh exclaimed furiously, as Lady Roslin hoisted the underpants a few inches higher.
"Do you wish to be rescued or not?" Lady Roslin asked pointedly. Her own underwear were carefully folded and packed away at the bottom of a sturdy valise; she was no fool. "Besides, this can't be the first time you've gone without."
Mrs. Tigh's entire face turned a terrifying shade of white, which was truly a sign of rage as red was rather her complexion's default color, especially around the nose. "You horrible witch. I swear, if we get off this island, I'm going to ..." She took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. "You'll see," she warned. "I won't forget this."
Lady Roslin secured the flag line with a neat knot and wiped off her hands. She didn't seem especially impressed with Mrs. Tigh's threats. "I'll be sure to pray your memory survives such an extraordinary effort, considering the abuse it takes," she sniffed. She turned around and smiled as the other ladies entered the room. "Are we all ready to greet our gentlemen callers?"
"Are we sure they'll come?" Miss Cally asked, biting her thumbnail with a worried expression. She was very young, very nervous and had a temper so fierce when provoked, she had killed one of the pirates with a broomstick, which frightened everyone in the house except for Miss Thrace who was more than a little impressed and envious of Cally's strangely powerful rage.
"Oh, they'll be here," Lady Roslin replied confidently, glancing up at Ellen's flying underwear.
Miss Thrace grumbled to herself, while pacing the mansion's tiled floor. "We don't need any stupid men. We're fine just the way we are. I could row us off this island with one hand ..."
"Yes, dear, but why exert yourself when you don't have to?" Lady Roslin said soothingly, patting Kara's gun arm, keeping a respectful distance away from her knife hand. "Let them do the rowing. It's what they were made for, isn't it?"
"Hmmph," Kara grumped, but finally, she flopped down to sit on the stairs, her skirts gathered around her knees. "Fine."
The sound of footsteps climbing the front stairs echoed in from the veranda and Cally jumped. "Oh my god, someone's here. What if it's ..."
She didn't finish her sentence before Kara leapt to her feet and was blindly firing away at the door, musket barrel smoking. "Get out of here, you bastards!" she cried, before clenching her knife in her mouth, fumbling fore more gunpowder. She kept firing as fast as the reloading would allow her to and when the powder was finished, she took the knife from her teeth and brandished it wildly. "I'll kill all of you!"
"STOP!" Lady Roslin cried, waving her arms. "For the love of god, Miss Thrace!"
She flung open the door and to everyone's horror, on the porch lay four officers of Her Majesty's Royal Navy, face down against the stone, their hands holding onto their oversized, feathered hats for dear life.
Horribly, they weren't moving.
"Are they dead?" Cally whispered, biting her lip. "Oh dear. Kara, you killed them! Now we'll never be rescued!"
Slowly, one of the officers stirred. He was a young man, with a handsome face, only slightly marred by a flirtation with sheer terror. "What in hells name was that?" he asked, pulling himself up into a sitting position and examining his hat, which now sported a large bullet hole between the brim and the feather.
The other officers followed suit, all of them looking shocked and pale. Eventually they rose to their feet, staring at the women with wide eyes. There were two older officers, one of them deep in his cups and tottering in his boots, another young one, short, dark-haired and so terrified-looking, one would have thought he'd met up with a house full of lunatics, firing openly on him. Then again ...
"Madam," the most decorated one said, addressing Roslin in a short, snappish tone. "You requested succor? A white ... " He glanced up, his mouth crabbily taut. He jerked a thumb skyward. "Whatever that is flying above the house has led us here to assist you. Not that you seem in particular danger, at least not as much as those who are foolish enough to come to your door unannounced."
"Gentlemen," Roslin laughed nervously. She swallowed and shot a glare toward Kara, who had the decency to look a little abashed, but not that much. "How kind of you to come to our rescue."
"If we'd known such a greeting was waiting for us ..." The first young officer shook his head, then gave a short bow. "I'm Lee Adama, a captain aboard the Galactica. With me, is my father, the Admiral, Mr. Tigh, our First Mate and Mr. Gaeta, our Officer of the Watch." He peered at Kara who glared back, as if daring him to make a false move. "That's quite a firing technique you have there." He held up his hat and wiggled a finger through a bullet hole. "However, you might want to obtain a visual target next time."
"I hit better when I'm not looking," she replied, wiping the ashy barrel on the gun with a piece of her skirt. "That was just a warning shot."
That's where Kara's explanation was cut off as from behind her, Mrs. Tigh shrieked. "Saul!"
The drunken officer squinted blearily toward the sound, then straightened up in surprise. "Ellen?"
The Admiral glanced between them, a horrible look coming over his face. "Oh, no ..." he moaned.
"Saul!" Mrs Tigh screamed again, leaping into the surprised First Mate's arms. "Oh, sweetheart! Loveypants!"
Lee Adama grimaced. "Loveypants," he muttered, as Kara stuck out her tongue in a gesture of disgust.
"Ellen. Huh," Tigh said, looking torn between jubilation and disappointment. "Well, it's been a while, er, dear."
Ellen batted her dewy lashes at him, a tiny sob coming from somewhere deep inside, that place where all made-up emotions emanated from. "Oh darling, how horrible it's been. So many months spent in this i dreadful /i place, with these i dreadful /i , horrible, evil witches, especially that one over there ..." She pointed to Lady Roslin who viewed this scene with a unusual amount of surprise, at least for her normally unflappable self. "Take me, Saul and leave them here. Please? Please, darling. They don't deserve to be rescued ... and you love me! Only me! Isn't that true?"
"Uh," Tigh stammered, scratching his head. "Ellen, we've been apart for ten years. As I remember it, you left me. For that servant boy in Barbados. What the hell was his name again ... Muchaha? Fuchocho? Fred? Oh, whatever, it was something like that."
Ellen's face fell. "Well, yes, but ..." She giggled hopefully. "We're together now. Isn't that all that matters?"
"Well ..." Tigh began, but was interrupted by Miss Dualla's arrival in the foyer, holding a dress in each hand, while wearing very little else. Very little else.
"Girls, I can't make up my mind," Dualla said, holding up first a green dress, then a scarlet one against her mostly naked body. "Which should I wear for the trip? I'm thinking the red." She looked up for an answer and smiled at the gobsmacked men standing there, their jaws nearly dropped to the mansion's floor. "Oh, hullo," she said cheerily. "Silly me, I just can't decide these things on my own anymore."
That was when poor Mr. Gaeta fainted dead away, his head hitting the marble floor with an unpleasant thunk.
"All right, I'll wear the green then," Miss Dualla said, taken aback, as everyone scrambled to get the poor man up and onto a couch.
Immediately, the Admiral took charge. "Madam ..." He paused. "And ... ladies. We will be leaving this house immediately. You may each take one bag of necessities, as the ship I sail isn't for cargo. Be ready within one hour or until my officer recovers. That is, if you haven't killed him with your ... " His mouth twitched as Dualla kept humming and examining the dresses. "... loss of composure."
"You're too kind," Lady Roslin said hurriedly, glaring at Dualla who scampered away to get ready. She quickly started to stuff a few more valuables into her valise. "We're eternally grateful, I'm sure."
"Hmmm," the Admiral said, as in one corner, Mr. and Mrs. Tigh began to get i reacquainted /i and in the other, his son was engaging in a glaring contest with the savage young lady who'd nearly killed them all.
Wonderful. This was going to be a wonderful retirement, certainly.
0o0o0o
yeah, there'll probably be more ... let me know if you want any. Arrrrg!