I have been filling our applications and writing essays for scholarships. The deadline for a big one was yesterday. I finished writing the essay and went to post it at about 8:00 PM, and it was already closed. I had thought it was until midnight. All that work down the drain! I was discouraged.
Bean 02 - Hans Zimmer? Is that the guy who did the music for Miami Vice?
The Crimson Rose
Nearly high the Surprise weighed anchor, the men straining at the capstan to winch it off the sandy bottom. Despite being partly cloudy, the day was hot and when the sun broke through, it glanced dazzlingly off the water, the sand, and all the ship's surfaces.
"All hands make sail," Jack told Mowett. As his second lieutenant began to call out orders, Jack turned to the sailing master. "Mr. Allen, take us out of the bay."
"Aye, sir," said the older man with a salute, and when he had gone off, Jack was left alone with Stephen.
"Let's hope they were successful," he admitted to his friend.
"If they were, would you say our chances are even?" the doctor inquired calmly, as if it were a mere theoretical problem instead of a matter of life and death. Our lives, Jack thought, our deaths.
"It's hard to say for certain. With Tom in charge of the guns, they may be quite effective; however, if they're poorly trained, it could be disastrous. Still." His familiar grin turned up one corner of his mouth. "As long as the Walrus is not against us, our odds are vastly improved."
Once the anchor had been hoisted and secured, the Surprise was guided by the boats into the passage of the curving inlet. The topmen unfurled and trimmed the sails, and when a breeze caught them for a moment, the ship jumped forward a bit. The men in the boats rowed hard, pulling the ship towards the great slow curve that lead out to the open sea. The breeze was light here and weak, and it took effort to get underway.
Nigh on high tide, they caught a good stiff breeze and set steadily towards the reef; the men were able to stop rowing and climb back onboard the ship. As the towering cliffs on either side opened out, the wind grew more constant. Ahead was the open sea, but there was the reef to pass first and then the ships waiting in ambush.
As fast as they had been sailing when they had entered the bay, their progress now seemed to be in slow motion. Of course, the danger of crossing the reef at high speed was eliminated, but a serious, frowning Mr. Allen kept a tight rein on things. He knew what he was about, and soon they came to the last of the great curves in the bay and then the open sea stretched before them. As they passed over the deadly reef, they all held their breath.
Out of the bay, the strong wind from the south caught in the Surprise's sails and she leapt forward with a tremendous shudder. The Walrus was about six miles south and bearing due north. The other ships were both northward: the Tenerife was turning southwards from the east, but the Phoebe, less than three miles away, was bearing down on them directly.
Knowing that hesitation would kill them all, Jack shouted out orders: to turn towards the Phoebe and meet them head on. He studied the ship in his glass but swung around at the cry from above.
"Sir! Sir!" cried one of the topmen from the mainmast. "The Walrus, sir! See her colors!"
They all turned to see. As her sails were unfurled, pulled taut by the wind, and the sailcloth banner fluttered and then trailed out behind the big frigate: a dark red rose upon a plain field.
Overall, the ship and her crew disgusted Tom Pullings though he did not allow his feelings to show. The men were lazy, undisciplined, surly, and volatile, men motivated by fear or greed, or a combination of both. At the moment, they were afraid of Rose and terrified of Flint's ghost and thus were about as effective as they could be. Rose was playing her role expertly, but he knew that the crew could turn on them in an instant and without warning.
Some of them had known her in the past, which was apparent from the way they looked at her. They knew her and feared her, feared what she was capable of. Most of all, they feared Flint and what would befall then if they disregarded his wishes and did not support her. He paid close attention to the crew, as did the eight men from the Surprise, for any dissenters would have to be dealt with swiftly.
Now, along with Rose and Captain Bantam, he took up his glass to study the other ships. The Walrus raced northwards towards the Surprise, which had turned to face the Phoebe. "We can't catch them," he said aloud. "But we shall reach them before the Tenerife." To Captain Bantam, he asked, "How well-schooled are your men at firing the guns?"
"Best in the Spanish Main," he told them with a twinge of smug pride.
"Do you think the Phoebe will be well away from the Surprise by the time we reach them?" asked Rose.
With his expert eye, Tom estimated the speed of the ships and the angle of the wind; in an instant, he calculated the distance in his mind. "By more than two ship lengths," he answered. "More if she doesn't turn for another pass."
Morton, the first mate, joined them at the rail. He was a fair, handsome man of five-and-thirty with fine, almost beautiful, features. "Gun crews're ready," he announced, glaring insolently at Rose without disguising his dislike.
"Very well. Tom, we'll catch the Phoebe with the larboard guns after she passes the Surprise. Then, we'll let the Tenerife have it with the starboard before they realize we're against them."
"Against the Phoebe?" Morton, the first mate, was aghast.
"As I said," she told him with a cold stare of her own.
"By thunder, ye'll make a hash of this cruise, ye faithless bitch," he growled, ire overcoming good sense and the instinct for preservation.
"You'll be the first then, George Morton, you bloody damn fool." Without rushing, she drew out one of her pistols.
"No, wait." Tom stepped partially between them. "We can ill afford to lose any man who's not against Flint."
At almost the same time, a heavy marlinspike dropped to the deck and stuck fast about a hand's breadth from Morton's foot. The all glanced up, startled, but there was nothing to be seen save the billowing sails. The ethereal sound of laughter floated down to them, and the color drained from Bantam's face. "It's Flint! By the power!"
The four of them stood there on the quarterdeck looking at each other with pale, serious faces. "Blast it! I had hoped not to anger him!" said Rose.
Morton swallowed with a gulping noise and a trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face. "I sailed sixteen years with him," he told her. "Now, you know I'd never turn agin' Flint, Miss Rose, and he knows it as well," he said in a tone meant to placate, but his eyes were hard.
"That may be, but the next word of sauce I hear, I put a pistol shot in a man's head."
The murderous look that passed between them impressed Tom, and he knew in his bones that there was something between them. Before they had left the Surprise, he and Rose had worked out the scenario of his talking her out of shooting any pirates causing discord, and it had worked this once. They knew, both of them, and had known from the first, that there might be instances were they would have to murder some of the pirates in cold blood as a lesson to the others. This time it had been unnecessary; nevertheless, it was uncertain that the same trick would work again. The marlinspike had been a nice touch along with the ghostly laughter. Who had done it?
Old Bantam, still recovering from the terrible shock of Flint's interference, forced a laugh as Morton went back to the waist of the ship. "Ah, the years ain't banked his fire, eh, lass?"
She looked at him with brows lifted in an expression of disdain. "A bit more attention to the task at hand wouldn't go amiss just about now," she remarked, for they were hurtling towards the other ships. She went forward and down the steps. "Is this a Dutchman's barge with the sails all a'hoo?" she shouted up at some of the topmen's sloppy handling of the sails. "Trim that damn sail or I'll make you wish you had!"
At Tom's look of curiosity, the old pirate continued in a low, amused tone. "Yon lad was sweet on the gal nigh on thirteen years ago. A pretty young fellow he was, more'n now, and wenches was fallin' all over him. Ladies, even." He cackled at the thought. "And Miss Rose was some hellcat in those days. Put a musket ball in his arm one day and swore she'd shoot his balls off if he put a hand on her."
"Lover's spat?" asked Tom, attempting to sound vaguely interested and not at all jealous.
"Can't say that Flint would have allowed it."
He wanted to hear more, to discover what was between Rose and the handsome first mate, but there was no time. In only a few minutes he would set the guns blazing, and he knew he had to get below. With a glance to Rose, who was busy calling orders to the crew, he strode off to take command of the gun deck.
In this thing, the unruly pirates were well-schooled. The loading and priming of the big guns was not the chore he had envisioned, and as they raced closer to the Phoebe, he was satisfied and ready.
The Phoebe had exchanged fire with the Surprise and seemed hardly aware of the Walrus barreling down on them, for in the ensuing chaos, her crew was totally unprepared for the full broadside from the Walrus. Most of the shot hit the mark, instantly crippling the smaller ship, and Tom bellowed at the men to get them over to the starboard guns double quick. They were changing course slightly, he could sense, to go after the Tenerife, which was not yet aware of the threat from the Walrus.
Easily, the heavy starboard guns caught them astern and all the way round the larboard side. Tom set the men to reload and ran up on deck to see what damage they had inflicted. The Phoebe was badly damaged and listing quite a bit to the larboard having been hit first by the Surprise and then almost point blank by the Walrus. The Tenerife was coming around and the Surprise had the wind of her: it was only a matter of time.
"Sail-ho!" called one of the men of the Surprise and Tom shaded his eyes to see him on the mainmast's crosstrees. "North nor'east!"
Almost in the same instant, Tom, Rose, and Gerald Bantam raised their spy glasses to examine the newcomer. "Bloody hell," muttered the captain. "Flying the white ensign."
"Rose," said Tom, staring hard at the sails, which were familiar to him. "I think it's the Gallant."