St. Eleanor of Milborough

Really. I've been working on the next chapter, and it's almost ready but it's been a long goddamned day and I'm starting to make no sense. I'll announce it on Binky Betsy.

LC

My brother sent me this -- I have fond memories of driving around with my mom and brothers as a kid, and hearing this on the radio. We'd all sing along as we bounced about in mom's old orange Aster and crack ourselves up.



Windjammer! is being worked on today :) Don't know when I can get it posted -- tonight, possibly tomorrow. Keep an eye on this space or look on the FOOBiverse's Journal for an announcement.

LC

Okay, I'm back and somewhat alive. You can read the details as to where I've been the last three weeks here, though I must warn you, there are water buffalo and snot involved.

On the For Better or For Worse front, I see that Lynn has been busy regaling her loyal fans with trips back in time. For the record, I was looking forward to seeing the old strips, which I loved. What I didn't take into account is that I'd be looking at them through eyes permanently scarred with the last few years of the strip. It's very hard to look at the charming little scamp the 1979 Michael was and not think of the 2007 douchebag he ended up becoming.

It makes it quite difficult to read the new hybrid, especially since the time machine Lynn Johnston is using for these little jaunts down memory lane is, frankly, excruciatingly ill-conceived. Strips are presented as individual memories from characters who couldn't not have had said memories, and ... gah. It's just really bad. And as always, it doesn't have to be that way.

Oh well. Anyway, off to clean the house a bit, or at least removed the larger of the cat-hair tumbleweeds that are blowing through, and then hopefully some more work on Windjammer!, since I now am well enough to sit up for more than an hour at a time.

LC

My mom is taking me to Italy for a graduation present :) Back on November 3!

LC

She who binds to herself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But she who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise.


LC

No, really.

I did mean to have the next chapter up today but I was so busy being gobsmacked by Gwampa Chinnuts' apparent demise, I literally can't focus on finishing it (it's nearly done). Mainly because I found myself obsessively checking the FOOBiverse's Journal! to see what new witty comments have appeared. It's pretty sad, that level of attention, but in my defense this is the first thing that's happened in strip since September 2, unless you count the adventure of SuperTeddy! which I don't.

Then I ended up talking to Dancing in Socks Guy for two hours, an hour more than we should have because he has an exam next week he needs to study for, plus the family stuff he's got going on now. Then I had to make dinner. That was going to be grilled chicken salad with toasted pine nuts, organic celery with organic tomato wedges, but ended up being me gnawing on the cooked chicken. Then, too, The Bionic Woman was on tonight, as was the Top Chef finale.

Speaking of, seriously. Hung? How uninspired. I was hoping Dale would win, with Casey as my second choice. Hung is talented and all that, but such an obvious choice.

Ah, well. Anyway, tomorrow because I seriously can't seem to focus and I'm all about quality. Kind of about quality, anyway. Some of the time. Actually, I'm just lazy. Oooooh, it's midnight!

ETA: MOTHERFUCKER! Like the strip, Gwampa Chinnuts is not *quite* dead!

LC

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas

Dancing in Socks Guy's uncle passed away unexpectedly today. That's the true reason for this poem.

Imagine my shock when I saw today's FBOFW. Turns out the poem has a secondary meaning today. Possibly a tertiary meaning if you count FW, but I'm not.

LC

On Monday, October 1 :)

ETA: Which it almost is right now. I mean, some time during the day.

Or, uh, tomorrow. I actually wrote it at work (during my breaks, of course) and put it on a flash drive intending to do some editing and post it here at home. But it appears said flash drive is probably sitting right on my desk at work. Ooopsies.

There's a two hour time difference between here and Albuquerque, and it usually doesn't bother me at all but this time it seems to have kicked my ass. I walked out of the house this morning wearing two similar, yet different shoes.

LC

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

Chapter 11

When I was a walking out one day
Down by the London River
A pretty little fair maid I chanced to spy
Now we walked along together
Her lips were like two roses red
A fine feather bonnet was covering her head
So I took the harboard on her, she said she was a maid
That saucy little trim-rigged doxy
I shan't and I can't go along with you
You saucy ramblin' sailor
My parents now they would not agree
And I'm promised to a tailor
But I was all too eager to sample all her charms
A dearest guinea to roll in your arms
Well the deal was done, up stairs we went
That's me and the trim-rigged doxy
From The Trim-Rigged Doxy Traditional Sea Song

KATHUNK! KATHUNK! KATHUNK!

“John!” Elly shouted, thundering up the stairs and down the hall to her husband’s bedroom. She pounded frantically on the closed door. “Wake up!”

The door opened to reveal a tousle-haired, bleary-eyed man clad only in pajama bottoms. “For God’s sake!” he muttered, scratching at himself. “Why all this fuss? Why are you pounding on my door at this time of night? If it’s what I think it is, Eleanor, you can forget it. It hasn’t even been a month since—”

“Of course it’s not that,” Elly hissed. “It’s this! Read it!”

John took the letter from Elly’s trembling hand. Sighing and scratching himself again, he began to read aloud. “Dear Mrs. Patterson. I know all about Elizabeth’s shameful condition and I know that you have been trying to conceal it. If you do not want all of Milborough to learn of her disgrace, you will do as I say. Details to follow in a separate letter. Remember, if you do not follow my directions exactly, all will be revealed.”

“Oh, no!” Elly mourned.

“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish!” John exploded. “As if we haven’t trouble enough!”

“What’s going on?” Elizabeth said, poking her head around her bedroom door. “Why are you shouting so?”

“I’ll tell you why, Missy!” John shouted. “We’ve received a letter. A blackmail letter! The author knows of your predicament and has threatened to reveal all if we do not give in to his demands!”

“No!” Elizabeth gasped, her face paling. “What – what does he want?”

“He didn’t say,” Elly replied, her voice as grim as her face. “But I wager that it will be money.”

“Then we are in a pickle,” John said. “We haven’t got any.”

“We’ll have to sell something,” Elly decided.

John gave her a bemused look. “Sell something? But we haven’t anything of value besides my train collection and – oh, no, no we’re not!”

“We must,” Elly said. “There is no other way.”

“But they’re my trains,” John protested.

“And she,” Elly replied, gesturing towards Elizabeth, “is your daughter.”

“But I don’t see why I should have to suffer for that,” John said sullenly. “I didn’t tell her to run around with that Paul Wright character and get herself into trouble!”

“It wasn’t all Paul’s fault,” Elizabeth began. “I’m just as much to—”

“That’s enough, Elizabeth,” Elly told her sternly. Turning towards her pouting husband, she continued, “Regardless, John, we must see that news of Elizabeth’s condition does not become public. If it does, Anthony Caine will never marry her!”

“I don’t want to marry him anyway,” Elizabeth muttered.

Elly ignored this. “Furthermore, this sort of thing would be just the ammunition that dreadful Baroness Sobinski would need to put an end to any chance Michael has of marrying Lady Deanna! We have concealed Elizabeth’s mistake this long, in another few weeks all will be well. We must meet with this person and find out what he wants. We must deal with this before the Marie Chantal returns to port!”

…

Michael Patterson lay in his bunk, too excited to sleep. So many new things had happened all at once, and he was bursting to tell someone, though he realized he could not. Firstly, he had no friends on the ship, and secondly, he knew that secrecy was of the utmost importance. Weed had stressed that, and had Michael Pinky Swear to keep everything secret.

Sighing, Michael turned on his side. The broom closet to which he had been assigned for his own protection was lonely sometimes, but better than sleeping with the other hands as this way he at least stood a chance of waking up in the morning.

He just didn’t understand why it was so hard for him to make friends. He was always putting a foot wrong. In Milborough it hadn’t mattered so much as he had his mother and sisters and latterly Deanna to keep him company. But now, for the first time in the company of real, red-blooded men, he was always blundering. He longed more than anything to find a true chum on board, one he could laugh and joke and occasionally partake of alcohol with. Something like the friendship between Paul Wright and Warren Blackwood.

He was convinced he’d never find such a friend. That is, until he’d found Weed hiding in the storeroom. Suddenly he had a bosom pal, and such an exciting one at that! Michael had grown up in a largely feminized world, with no toughening influences such as his school mates had in their fathers or brothers. Michael rubbed his hands together with glee. At last, a chance to be a real man, a manly man. The sort of fellow who featured in the adventure stories Michael so loved. Why, he could hardly wait to –

SKRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKKKK!

Michael sat bolt upright in bed. He knew that noise well, having heard it during the several episodes in which he’d had to be rescued from the water. It was the sound of the skiff scraping against the side of the ship. He whether or not he should go investigate …

…

“What the hell was that?” Paul said, sitting up in his bunk.

“Sounded like the skiff,” Warren yawned. “But what’s it doing out at this time of night?”

“We’d better go see,” Paul said, jumping to the floor and heading to the cabin door.

“Damn,” Warren said, following him. “If this in any way, shape or form involves Michael Patterson, I’ll keel haul him myself.”

LC

... around noon on Thursday. I had some work-related writing to do tonight, plus the write-up for The Foobiverse's Journal.

Dancing in Socks Guy is at the Chemical Brothers show in Denver tonight and I am SO JEALOUS!!!

LC

ETA: Okay, not noon, apparently. But soon. Working on it now.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Hail ya ho boys, let her go boys
Bring her head 'round, and all together
Hail ya ho boys, let her go boys
Sailing homeward to Mingalay

What care we how wild the minch is
What care we for windy weather
Hail ya ho boys, every inch is
Sailing closer to Mingalay

Wives and sweethearts on the hillside
Looking seaward through the heather
Let her go boys, and we'll anchor
'Ere the sun sets on Mingalay

When the wind is wild with shouting
And the waves mount ever higher
Anxious eyes turn ever seaward
To see us home, boys, to Mingalay

The Mingalay Boat Song, Traditional Sea Song
April Patterson swore as she attempted to shift position and ease the cramping in her legs. Although she was not afflicted with the reubenesque physique which so plagued her mother, the barrel in which she sat was quite small, leave little room to move about. She wished she’d been able to find a better hiding place, but this was located at the rear of the ship, next to where the smaller boats tied up when anyone boarded the ship, including the mysterious visitor who was expected that very night. If it was at all possible she planned to get herself off the pirate ship and onto wherever the visitor’s boat would take her.

“Phxck,” she sighed as her right foot began to cramp up again. When she’d shimmied down the drainpipe of her parents house and run off into the night six months earlier she’d never dreamed she’d end up hauling sail on a pirate ship. Or cleaning pipes at a Toronto opium den, or fan dancing in Quebec, or pick pocketing in Ottawa. But as tired as she was of life on the run, she was mature enough to appreciate what she had. Complete and total freedom from her family.

Her mother made no secret of her overweening preference for Michael, April’s brother and the eldest Patterson child. Once upon a time, April’s father had exhibited a bizarre fixation on her, which had always made her uncomfortable. But once April had grown up a little and found a beau named Gerald, it stopped. Her father had sulked for a week, then took to calling April ‘spoiled’ and ‘emotional’ and switched his preference back to Elizabeth, the middle child who even with ten years – or was it nine years? – seniority was much more of a ‘little girl’ than April had ever been.

April yawned, and wondered idly where Gerald was that night. They’d run off together, on the night of April’s sixteenth birthday, intending to get married. She didn’t really want to get married, but it had been drummed into her since infancy that the only way she would leave her parents home was as a bride. On the day before her sixteenth birthday, when she’d come home to find that her mother had rented out April’s room to a total stranger, she’d made up her mind that perhaps she’d best marry young after all. But on the train to Toronto she’d caught Gerald bragging about his ‘conquest’ to some boys he’d befriended in their car, and that was the end of that …

SKKKKRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!

PLOKKITA.

PLOKITTA.

PLOKITTA.

April smiled, these were noises she knew well. The first was the sound of a skiff scraping along the side of the pirate ship’s rotting hulk, the second the sound of someone ascending the rope ladder which hung from the side of the ship. She craned her ears for the distinctive CREAK! CREAK! CREAKITY CREEEAAAAAAK! of footsteps on the deck. As soon as they faded, she’d PLOKITTA down that ladder herself and hide in the stranger’s boat. Soon she’d be on her way.

…

KERPLOOK! KERPLOOK! KERPLOOK!

Captain Brad Luggsworth stood at the helm of the HMS Watterson, listening to the sound of the waves gently slapping against the prow, steering the Coastal Guards vessel with a sure and steady hand. Mentally he reviewed the roster of potential ship traffic on Lake Ontario, drawing upon his encyclopedic knowledge of the various vessels which sailed the mighty waters of the inland sea. He grimaced when he thought of the Marie Chantal, knowing as he did that his rival for the heart of the lovely Lady Deanna Sobinski was aboard.

Luggsworth held no personal animus towards him. Michael Patterson was simply too insignificant for Luggsworth to bother hating. Certainly he wished that Deanna were not so insistent on marrying such a nonentity, but Luggsworth had infinite confidence in his own abilities. He was certain he could, eventually, convince Deanna to rid herself of this foolish notion that the only person one could marry was the boy or girl one first ‘fell in love with’ whilst playing jacks.

“She will come to her senses,” he said to himself, before turning to the task at hand, figuring out where the dread pirate ship, the Corbeil might be lurking. The first reports had come in a few weeks before. At first the Commander, reluctant to admit to the presence of piracy on Lake Ontario as many were, had discounted this as the hysterical ravings of sailors too long at sea, but an ever-increasing number of reports by credible men changed his mind.

SKREEEEEWWKKKK!!!

He tugged the wheel to starboard, his jaw set firmly. It was up to Luggsworth and his men to find and stop this dreaded scourge of the waters before they struck again. And by God, he would see this thing through!

…

Elly Patterson trudged dispiritedly down Sharon Park Drive. It had been yet another day devoid of customers at her Bookstore, Hobby Shop, and Short-Order Restaurant. When, she’d even kept it open until the unprecedented hour of one in the morning, hoping that at least one hungry sailor might stagger down the street and accidentally careen into her establishment, having mistaken it for the saloon next door, but no such luck.

She hauled her weary bones up the shabby front steps of her home, and let herself in the front door, noting that it desperately needed new paint. Nothing to be done about that now, they couldn’t afford it. Things had gone from bad to worse for the family finances in just a few days. Just yesterday she had been informed by the bank manager that John had withdrawn the very last shreds of their savings the day before. She fully intended to find out why, though she suspected trains were somehow involved.

Consequently, even more metaphorical belt-tightening was necessary. She’d even had to let their brand new cook, Mary Worth, go that morning. Elly shuddered as she recalled the long string of invective, worthy of any sailor, that the sweet-faced, white haired old woman had thrown at her. Now it was even more critical that Michael marry Lady Deanna and her money.

Sighing, Elly lit the candle which always reposed on the walnut table in the hallway. As the match flared, she noticed a letter lying there. Snatching it up, she slit it open with shaking hand, using a pin from her sloppy bun of hair. Perhaps it was a letter from her dear son Michael!

“Oh, NO!” she gasped in horror as she read what was written there. We are found out! Someone knows about Elizabeth!”

LC

Because I'm in Albuquerque right now with Dancing in Socks guy and I have other things on my mind ;)

I am guest-blogging on the FOOBiverse starting tomorrow morning at 12 AM, and have a little something planned for that.

LC

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Oh the times was hard and the wages low
Leave her, Johnny, leave her
And the grub was bad and the gales did blow
And it's time for us to leave her
Leave her, Johnny, leave her
Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her
For the voyage is done and the winds do blow
And it's time for us to leave her
From Leave her, Johnny, Traditional Chanty.

Michael Patterson looked around cautiously. Satisfied that no one was about, he grabbed the plate of food from its hiding place and tiptoed from the galley, down a narrow passage and silently entered the store room.

“Weed,” he hissed. “Are you there?”

“Over here, man,” his new friend replied. “By the potatoes.”

Michael wended his way through the narrow aisles made by the various crates and boxes that contained the ship’s food. “I brought you some dinner. I figured you might be hungry by now.”

“Like, starving!” Weed replied, snatching the plate from him. “I haven’t eaten since we left Milborough!”

Michael pushed aside a crate of raisins and took a seat on the floor. “I’ll try to bring you something every day, but I can’t promise I’ll always be able to. Cook usually leaves the kitchen after the evening meal, but sometimes he stays on, trying a new recipe or two.”

“That’s, like, okay man,” Weed said, settling his plate on a box containing tins of figs. “I’ve been hungry before, man, an’ I can take it. Food is just a bourgeois expression anyway, man.”

“Oh, I heard something today!” Michael said. “The second mate was in the kitchen earlier, telling Cook we’d be putting in at Montreal in just three days from now!”

“Cool, man!” Weed exclaimed. “Then I can, like, finally get my bread back, man!”

Michael still had a hard time following Weed’s quaint speech patterns, but he assumed his friend was referring to The Lost Treasure, that fortune in Inca gold which had been stolen from Weed’s Cherokee Princess Great Grandmother. “I certainly hope so, chum. But are you sure your contact will be there when we arrive?”

“Oh yeah, man,” Weed said, his mouth full. He fished a piece of much-folded paper from the pocket of his long, black coat. “Here, read this!”

Michael took it and read while Weed crammed bits of Beef Wellington in his mouth.

Dear Sir:

I have been requested by the Montreal National Petroleum Company to contact you for assistance in resolving a matter. The Montreal National Petroleum Company has recently concluded a large number of contracts for oil exploration in the sub-Sahara region. The contracts have immediately produced moneys equaling US$40,000,000. The Montreal National Petroleum Company is desirous of oil exploration in other parts of the world, however, because of certain regulations of the Montreal Government, it is unable to move these funds to another region.

You assistance is requested as a non-Montreal citizen to assist the Montreal National Petroleum Company, and also the Central Bank of Montreal, in moving these funds out of Montreal. If the funds can be transferred to your name, in your United States account, then you can forward the funds as directed by the Montreal National Petroleum Company. In exchange for your accommodating services, the Montreal National Petroleum Company would agree to allow you to retain 10%, or US$4 million of this amount.

However, to be a legitimate transferee of these moneys according to Montreal law, you must presently be a depositor of at least US$100,000 in a Montreal bank which is regulated by the Central Bank of Montreal.

If it will be possible for you to assist us, we would be most grateful. We suggest that you meet with us in person in Montreal, and that during your visit I introduce you to the representatives of the Montreal National Petroleum Company, as well as with certain officials of the Central Bank of Montreal.

Please write to me at the address below at your earliest. Time is of the essence in this matter; very quickly the Montreal Government will realize that the Central Bank is maintaining this amount on deposit, and attempt to levy certain depository taxes on it. And I have to go back to Nigeria soon. Yours truly, etc.

Ben Ahore Okon de Saint Pierre

“Goodness!” Michael exclaimed. “Imagine that! Forty million dollars!”

“Yeah, man,” Weed replied. “That exact same amount in Inca Gold that was stolen from my Great-Grandmother, man. According to family legend, the money was stolen by someone from the Montreal National Petroleum Company.”

“But it says here that the $40,000,000 was earned from oil exploration,” Michael said, confused.

“It’s a lie, man. That’s what they WANT me to believe, but I know the truth!” Weed exclaimed. “They can stuff their 10%, man. I’m getting the whole thing back! With your help, of course.”

“Oh, this is so exciting!” Michael gurgled. “I’m with you all the way, my friend! When we dock in Montreal, you and I shall go together and pay this Mr. Ben Ahore Okon de Saint Pierre a visit!

…

Lady Deanna Sobinksi paced about her bedroom, her long swans-down robe trailing behind her. She should have long since been in bed, but somehow, she just could not sleep. She kept reviewing that morning’s conversation with Michael’s mother. What Mrs. Patterson said made sense at the time, but the more Deanna thought about it …

It was all so confusing, she thought. She did love Michael. She had known him from the time she was a small girl, playing about in Milborough Park under the watchful eye of her nurse. Michael was a rough-and-tumble young lad, a thrower of stuffed toys, a tweaker of elderly noses, and quite unlike anyone else in Deanna’s quite, well-bred life. They had lost touch once she had gone to her Swiss boarding school, but had reconnected later.
Deanna smiled, recalling the moment she had peered up from the wreckage of her carriage to see a now mostly-grown Michael Patterson standing there, writing furiously away on a scrap of paper. Since that time they were inseparable.

But then there was Brad Luggsworth. She knew him well from children’s parties and the primary school they had attended, and had always quite liked him. She recalled with a shiver the first time she had seen him after her return from Switzerland. He was so handsome in his Coastal Guards uniform, so manly, so … so, she didn’t know quite what, except that she was always restless and confused when around his masculine presence.

For that reason, she avoided him and continued her relationship with Michael. Michael was not quite as tall and not nearly as well built as Brad, and of course Michael had yet to start a career while Brad was a rising star in the Coastal Guards. But Michael evoked no confused feelings or sudden rushes of tingling warmth in her, and for that reason, Deanna felt safe with him.

…

Michael Patterson crept silently up on deck. He knew he’d been forbidden to set foot above, but he yearned for fresh air, especially tonight when his normally pale, thin cheeks were flushed with excitement. Surely a moment or two would do no harm.

He slipped behind a large pile of coiled rope and drew in deep draughts of the night air. Oh, he was so excited about his coming adventure! He could hardly wait to arrive in Montreal and help Weed reclaim his family fortune from the Montreal National Bank and that scoundrel Mr. Ben Ahore Okon de Saint!

SPLOOOOSHHHH!

Michael started. Surely he hadn’t caused that noise, he’d been so very careful not to touch anything, especially after his second day when he’d knocked the nautical charts into the—

SPLISH! SPLOOSH! SHWIPSHWOOPSHWIP!

He snuck out from behind the rope coils, and stole to the side. Mindful of his last unintentional swim, he gripped the rail tightly and peered over.

“Hmmm. I wonder who’s taking the skiff out at this time of night?” Michael thought to himself as he watched a cloaked figure furiously row away from the Marie Chantal.

LC

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Did you ever see a wild goose
Sailin' o'er the ocean
Ranzo, Ranzo, weigh, heigh
They're just like them pretty girls
When they gets the notion
Ranzo, Ranzo, weigh, heigh

From The Wild Goose Shanty, Traditional Sea Chanty

Elly Patterson stood behind the scarred wooden counter of the short-order restaurant part of her Bookstore, Hobby Shop and Short-Order Restaurant. As usual, there were no customers. The entire place was empty, save for her own outsized presence. Not one single soul had entered the store at all that morning.

She gazed longingly at the plate of muffins before her, wondering yet again why her business was failing. After all, there was nothing like it in Milborough – a single shop where one might purchase a book, hobby materials or to partake of good home cooking. No, so far as she knew, was there anything like it anywhere else. “Elly’s” was unique.

Giving up, she reached out and took a muffin. “Just this once won’t hurt,” she murmured to herself, devouring it in three bites. Just as she was licking the last crumbs from her fingers, the little bell over the front door let out a weak ringing sound. At last! A customer!

She squeezed herself from behind the counter and hurried to the front. Her face fell at the sight of Lady Deanna Sobinski, but only for a moment. She was very fond of Michael’s intended. “Deanna!” she exclaimed. “What brings you here?”

“Good morning Mrs. Patterson,” Deanna replied. “I was wondering if you had received word from Michael yet.”

“No, my dear, I have not,” Elly said, noticing the lovely new pelisse Deanna wore. The girl was sweet, but terribly spoiled by that harridan mother of hers. “But, I didn’t expect to, not just yet. After all, he will not be able to send a letter until the ship docks again.”

“Oh,” Deanna said, chewing her lush lower lip. “I see. How foolish of me to think otherwise”

“Come, come, sit down,” Elly said, ushering the younger woman to a battered table in the Short Order Restaurant section. “You seem troubled today, Deanna. Is anything the matter?”

“No … well … that is ...” Deanna stuttered before bursting into tears.

“There, there,” Elly soothed. “Get it out. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, and we can talk about what’s troubling you.”

She bustled about while Deanna composed herself. Returning to the table she plunked down two steaming cups of tea, another muffin for herself, and settled herself heavily into her chair. “There you are my dear. May I offer you something to eat as well?”

“Oh, no! No thank you,” Deanna said hastily.

“Very well then. Now, my dear girl, tell me what is troubling you so.”

“It’s this,” Deanna said hesitantly. “Mama, as you know, does not want me to marry Michael. She insists I marry Captain Luggsworth.”

“Hmmph!” Elly snorted.

“I have explained to her over and over again why that cannot be, Mrs. Patterson,” Deanna said, her blue eyes widening with anxiety. “But she tells me I’m talking nonsense, and that I am not required to marry my childhood sweetheart.”

“Deanna, I do not wish to speak ill of you mother, but I am afraid she is the one talking nonsense,” Elly said, he face reddening. “Everyone knows that this is the way of things. Why, I married my childhood sweetheart. My daughter Elizabeth will marry hers, and, God willing, my grandchildren shall do the same one day.”

“How is Elizabeth?” Deanna asked. “And April? I haven’t seen either of them about in some time.”

“Oh, they’re fine,” Elly replied smoothly. “Elizabeth is recovering from a dreaful case of the galloping mumps, and April, ah, April left a few months ago to attend the R.P. Boire Academie de Jeune Filles in, ah, Switzerland.”

“How lovely for her,” Deanna exclaimed.

“Yes,” Elly said. “But enough of my daughters. Let us return to your situation. Why your mother will not accept that one must marry one's childhood sweetheart, I do not understand, unless it is the fact of her foreign birth. But, this is Canada, and here we marry the very first boy or girl with whom we fall in love.”

Deanna’s milky brow furrowed. “Yes, Mrs. Patterson. But I have thought on this, and there are some things that trouble me. What if, for instance, one falls in love for the first time only to find that one’s first love has loved before? In that case one could not marry one’s first love as one’s first love must marry his or her first love, which is not one. What then?”

“Why do you want to know this,” Elly asked, buying time while she groped for an answer.

Deanna blushed. “Well, mother and I saw Captain Luggsworth off on his latest journey this morning, and he begged me anew to consider him as a husband. As you instructed, and as I have done many time before, I explained to him that this could not be because Michael is my first love and the one I am to marry. Captain Luggsworth reminded me that I am his first love and therefore ... oh, I’m so confused!”

“I know dear,” Elly said. “But truly, there is nothing to be confused about. You see, you because you were already plighted to my son by virtue of my son being your first love. Therefore, you cannot be Captain Luggsworth’s first love because you were not free to be loved. Do you understand?”

“I guess so,” Deanna said doubtfully.

“Well then,” Elly beamed, “all is well.”

“Yes,” Deanna said, her voice gaining strength. “And I shall inform Captain Luggsworth of this when he returns from this latest pirate patrol.”

Elly rolled her eyes. “Oh, Deanna. Everyone knows there are no pirates on Lake Ontario!”

…

April Patterson stood at the wheel of the pirate ship, cursing the spray which encrusted her elaborately dressed hair and painted face with salt. Driving the ship was not nearly so much fun as she had thought it would be, and now they wouldn’t let her stop!

“It’s lik I’m jst a phxckin refugee,” she muttered to herself. She wished she had never run away from home. She hated her parents and Milborough was boring, but life in a Toronto opium den wasn’t the adventure she’d dreamed of, and now even life on a pirate ship was turning out to be boring and predictable.

It might get better though. As she took over the wheel she’d heard The Pilot, that mysterious masked figure who seemed to be running the ship mutter to one of the deckhands to be on watch that night for a visitor. April made up her mind to keep watch as well. With any luck this visitor would arrive in a boat large enough for April to stow away on.

LC

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Now when we're out a-sailing
and you are far behind
Fine letters will I write to you
with the secrets of my mind,
The secrets of my mind, my girl,
you're the girl that I adore,
And still I live in hope to see
the Holy Ground once more.

From The Holy Ground Once More, Traditional Sea Chanty


Paul Wright lay on his bunk in the cabin he shared with Warren Blackwood. Warren had out some time before to hand out secret rations of food to the starving men, while Paul remained behind on the off chance that Anthony Caine might do a surprise inspection of quarters. Not that there was much chance of that, this time of night. Caine was usually in bed and fast asleep by nine o’clock, except on those rare occasions when he’d go on deck, look at the night sky for a while and misidentify the constellations to anyone unlucky enough to be nearby.

Thinking of Anthony Caine brought up other things he didn’t want to think about, specifically the one thing he and the Ship’s Accountant had in common, one Elizabeth Patterson. His face tightened in an unconscious frown as he tried to force the image of her from his mind, to no avail. He hadn’t seen her for nearly eight months and yet he thought about her every day. No matter where he was or what he was doing, there she was. What was sickening was the he was certain she probably didn’t think of him at all. No, she was probably at this very moment anticipating her upcoming wedding to that louse Anthony Caine, her mind filled with nothing more than orange blossom and bridesmaids …

Just then the door opened and Warren slipped silently into the room. “Then men all fed?” Paul asked.

“Every last one,” Warren said, flinging himself on his own bunk. “And glad they were to get them. I think we may have prevented a mutiny. This gets more and more pointless. Caine cuts rations to save money but I’ll wager he doesn’t even know where we keep the food, let alone how much is on board at any given time.”

“He’s about as good an accountant as he is a sailor,” Paul yawned.

“You’re not kidding. As it is, we’ll be lucky to make Montreal before our food runs out. I swear we’ve got rats on the ship. They’re all over the store room.”

“All ships have rats.”

“Yeah,” Warren frowned. “But we’ve either got more than usual or they’re giant rats. When I went in there I heard something crashing about. Sounded awfully loud for rats. I had a look around, but didn’t see anything. And a lot of food is missing.”

“So?” Paul said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a ship, things fall over. We’re probably low on food because Escoffier there is trying to impress Caine.”

“Maybe.” Warren said, doubtfully.

“That or the men are supplementing their rations on their own,” Paul continued. “And if they are, I don’t blame them and I’m not going to do anything to stop it.”

“Me either,” Warren agreed. “Let’s get some sleep, we’ve got early watch tomorrow.”

…

Elizabeth Patterson stood before the long pier glass in her bedroom, gazing dispiritedly at her own reflection. “Mama’s right,” she said to herself. “I am a sight!”

Sighing, she turned away, wondering how her life had gotten in such a mess. She knew her mother and father blamed Paul Wright for her current predicament. Certainly he had played a part in it, and certainly Elizabeth usually enjoyed seeing herself as a victim of unfortunate circumstance. But she knew deep down in her heart that she was no passive victim in this. Paul had been persuasive, yes, but she knew she could have been convinced if she had not truly wanted to do what she did.

She crossed the room, and stood by the window, peering carefully through a gap in the curtains. It was the middle of the night, but she could see faint lights from the ships bobbing about in the harbor. She wondered where Paul was just then. Not that it mattered, not after how everything had ended.

…

Michael Patterson stood at the work table in the galley of the Marie Chantal. To the casual observer he appeared to be concentrating on the vigorous peeling of an enormous pile of carrots by the light of a single candle, having been told he could not retire to his bunk until he’d peeled every last one. In reality, he was miles away, lost in a world filled with wild exploits and daring quests.

He’d never known a fellow like this Josef Weeder. Michael had spent his entire youth and large parts of his adulthood dreaming of Spanish treasure ships laden with gold doubloons, Confederate Cavalrymen, mysterious African government officials, runaway Clydesdales, The Underground Railroad and Cherokee Princesses! He’d written about these things in what his father called ‘a waste of perfectly good foolscap’ but Weed had actually lived these things!

And now he, Michael Patterson, was part of such an adventure!

He’d never wanted a Naval Career, had never even thought of pursuing such a thing until the day his dear Mama burst into his room – without knocking, yet again – and told him that via the assistance of Anthony Caine, she had secured him a berth on the Marie Chantal. He’d expressed his doubts, but Mama had assured him that this was the quickest way to obtain the financial security and material wealth needed for him to marry his childhood sweetheart, Lady Deanna Sobinski. Yet despite Anthony’s presence on board the ship, nothing had worked out the way it was supposed to.

First, he learned he was not to hold an important position as he and his mother naturally assumed he would. He was to be a common deckhand. He resolved to make the best of it, certain that it was a temporary situation. But everything seemed to go wrong. Invited to lead the crew in a chanty, he’d drawn disgusted looks from everyone on board when he burst out in an enthusiastic rendition of ‘Camptown Races.’ That was before he fouled the lines, raised the wrong sails and worse yet, committed the unpardonable sin of whistling while he worked. That nice Indian chap, Paul, had pulled the others off him and escorted him to safety, explaining that whistling on a ship was forbidden because sailors believed it would raise a storm.

And that was only the first day. Ever since then his fledgling nautical career had endured any number of setbacks and embarrassing mistakes until he finally found himself confined to the galley as cook’s assistant, convinced his naval career was over along with any hope of marrying Lady Deanna.

But meeting Weed changed all that. If their clever plans came to fruition, there would be no need to slog aboard a ship any longer. He’d have more than enough wealth to impress Baroness Sobinski, and he’d be free to marry his true love!

…

The pirate ship continued its silent pursuit of the Marie Chantal, its pilot skillfully tracking its quarry through the black night, guided by instinct. Gold would stolen and captives taken, of course. But there would be a reckoning, the pilot thought. A bloody, painful reckoning.

But not just now. No, the time was not quite right. But soon. Soon.

Just then, the hatch burst open with a loud crash. The pilot turned to see a fantastical figure of a young girl, clad in a short jacket and puffed skirt, with hair arranged in a way which resembled nothing so much as an exploding mushroom.

“R U gonna stand there all nite?” the figure demanded. “It’s time 2 let sum1 else steer the ship an’ it’s my turn 2 drive!”


LC

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Chapter 6

The young gents of this country
They're sitting at their ease
Not thinking on the stormy nights
That we spent on the seas
We brings the leaves to make cigars
To decorate their face
They wouldn't call us common
If they were sometimes in our place

From The Common Sailor, Traditional Sea Chanty

Captain Melville Kelpfroth sat at the head of his private dining table, his rough hewn face wearing its customary scowl. A scowl which deepened as he watched Anthony Caine open a bottle of wine and delicately sniff the cork.

“Back in my day,” Kelpfroth growled, “We never tasted no wine nor nothing but good ale and rum aboard ship!”

“One must be civilized,” Anthony said mildly, as he poured a bit of wine into his glass and swirled it about.

“Hrmph,” Kelpfroth spat in response.

Out of corner of his eye he caught Acting First Mate Paul Wright and Acting Second Mate Warren Blackwood exchanging a glance of amusement across the table. For a moment he considered tearing a strip off them, but reconsidered. He had no use for most of his crew, but he rather liked these two. Certainly they’d proved themselves more able than the two lily-livered poltroons they’d replaced, that useless Ned Tanner and that worthless Dennis North, both of whom disappeared into the fleshpots of Montreal two or three voyages back.

Funny how it worked out for the best, though. He’d signed Wright and Blackwood on as deckhands at the Milborough docks, driven by necessity to take on any able body he could, regardless of sailing experience. They spent the first few days exchanging insults which finally culminated in an all-out brawl. Some kind of history there. He didn’t know what it was, and didn’t care. He’d pulled them apart, tossed them into the brig with orders that they were to stay there until they learned to get along. Three days later they’d emerged as fast friends.

Since then they’d worked together and proven their worth so well that he’d chosen them to replace Tanner and North, albeit on a temporary basis. It said a lot about their friendship that they’d decided on their own to pick who’d be first mate on the basis of a coin toss. He had hoped they’d stay on long enough to be formally named first and second mate, but there didn’t seem to be much hope of that. Wright was restless to return to the North, and Blackwood was a free spirit at heart. Not much hope he’d hold them here, and in some ways he didn’t blame them. Chances were this would be his last voyage aboard the Marie Chantal as well.

He’d been sailing for nigh on thirty years, been a Captain for the last ten. In that time he’d worked for his share of idiots, but Gordon Mayes was far and away the worst. Didn’t know squat about a ship and didn’t care, so long as he made a profit. Mayes kept insisting on “streamlining” operations which as far as Kelpfroth could tell consisted of cutting the crew’s pay while lining his own pockets. The last straw was his installation of Anthony Caine as “Ship’s Accountant,” with authority to allow or deny all expenditures as he saw fit.

Kelpfroth seriously considered splitting Mayes from arsehole to appetite for that insult, but kept his notorious temper under control. There was his beloved Winnie to think of, her long-term illness and all her apothecary bills to pay. He couldn’t afford to quit outright, but he’d decided in the last day or so to return to Toronto after this trip and find another ship.

The entrance of Lawrence Poirier, Ship’s Cook, roused Melville Kelpfroth from his reverie. “Helloooooo!” caroled Poirier over the enormous serving tray he held. “Cook here! Tonight we have a lovely Terrine de Poulet, accented with Duchesse Potatoes and a wonderful wilted spinach salad with vinaigrette. Enjoy! Toodles!”

“Thank you, Poirier,” Anthony Caine said to Lawrence’s departing back. Picking up the large serving spoon he began to heap his plate.

“Awful fancy food Caine,” Paul Wright said calmly. “Especially when you’ve got the crew on half-rations.”

“What?” Kelpfroth exploded, his face shading to crimson. “Half rations? On whose order?”

“Mine,” Anthony replied tucking in to his food. “You see, Captain Kelpfroth, the crew have spent the last few days lolling about on decks, not working nearly as hard as they could. Consequently, I have decided that they do not require their full rations. Every undeserved mouthful they eat is the same as undeservedly helping themselves to Gordon Mayes’ money. No need to get in a huff about it, it’s simply a sound business decision.”

“A sound business decision?” Warren asked sarcastically. “You mean like refusing that load of ammunition back in Milborough?”

“Precisely,” Anthony said with a self-satisfied smile.

“Damned if we won’t live to regret that boneheaded decision,” Kelpfroth growled, staring at Caine with disgust. “Mark my words, we’ll be needing those bullets. There’s pirates in these waters, you know.”

Anthony Caine raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Oh, really, Captain? Well, you have been making that claim for some time and I have yet to see any evidence of these ‘pirates.’ I’m starting to think they are as mythical as that Witch of the Winds you nautical types keep jawing on about.”

Kelpfroth clenched his fists. Paul Wright, realizing the Captain was about to lose control quickly interjected, “The Captain’s right, Caine, and you know it. Why else do you think the Coastal Guards patrol these waters as often as they do?”

Anthony Caine shrugged noncommittally. “Perhaps they enjoy a good day’s sail as much as any of us. Let’s have no more of this subject. There are no pirates on Lake Ontario, the ammunition in the gun locker will suffice, and the crew will resume full rations as soon as they decide to stop lollygagging about. May I remind you all that Gordon Mayes has authorized me to make these decisions on his behalf? My decision is final, and if you all don’t mind, I’d like to finish my dinner.”

…

Baroness Mira Sobinski and her daughter, Lady Deanna, sat in their charabanc by the Milborough docks. Baroness Sobinski was in a temper, which was not at all unusual, but her intemperance was exacerbated by Deanna’s sullen countenance.

“Wipe that look off your face,” Baroness Sobinski hissed. “Captain Luggsworth will be here momentarily, and I do not want him to see you glowering like this!”

“I cannot help it, Mama,” Lady Deanna protested, her full lips growing poutier by the moment. “I told you I did not want to come here today!”

“And I told you that it would be the height of rudeness not to see Captain Luggsworth off. He was kind enough to send word of his abrupt departure, and this is his most dangerous mission yet!”

Lady Deanna rolled her eyes. “Oh, Mama. Captain Luggsworth is exaggerating, I am sure. Everyone knows there are no pirates on Lake Ontario!”

“Nonetheless,” her mother said firmly, “we are here to see him off, and you will pay him every attention when we do. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Lady Deanna sulked. “Though it is to no purpose. I have told you again and again, Michael Patterson is my childhood sweetheart, not Captain Luggsworth!”

“Nonsense!” Baroness Sobinski expostulated. “Where did you ever learn such foolishness? Neither your father nor I have ever hinted that one must marry one’s childhood sweetheart! Whoever told you this was required?”

Lady Deanna turned her innocent blue eyes towards her mother. “Why, Elly Patterson told me so.”

…

The Marie Chantal sailed on into the dark, born forward by a slight wind. The waters were fairly calm and the hunger-weakened voices of the night watch rang out over the water. “All’s well! All’s well!”

If the crew were less focused on the gnawing of their bellies they might have noticed the large, hulking vessel which followed them at some distance. A vessel steered by a lone, sinister figure. A vessel which sailed under a tattered, yet recognizable Jolly Roger …


LC

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4
Chapter 5

When I was a lad in a fishing town
My old man said to me:
"You can spend your life, your jolly life
Sailing on the sea.
You can search the world for pretty girls
Til your eyes grow weak and dim,
But don't go fishing for a mermaid, son
If you don't know how to swim"

From The Mermaid Song, Traditional Sea Chanty

Elly Patterson clomped up the rickety stairs of the Patterson Manse, pausing on the second-floor landing to catch her breath. She cast a dismal glance around at the faded wallpaper which hung on the walls of the stairwell, and noted with dismay that the carpeting on the stairs sported more than one threadbare spot. She sighed and heaved herself up the remaining steps to the second floor, cursing anew the change in fortune which led to the decrepit state of the family home.

How had it all gone so wrong, she wondered to herself as she steadied Elizabeth’s breakfast tray, licking her lips at the sight of the fresh blueberry muffin which reposed next to the plates of scrambled eggs and cream chipped beef with cheese sauce on the scratched enamel surface. By rights, the Patterson family should have been one of the most respected in all the tiny hamlet of Milborough. John, after all, was a dental surgeon, not quite in the same class as a physician to Elly’s way of thinking, but a respectable and lucrative profession nonetheless.

Yet they never seemed to have enough money, Elly thought as she blew a stray hair that had somehow escaped from her bun out of her eyes. John’s dental surgery never quite got off the ground, and then there were his unlucky railroad speculations … in fact, that she had been forced to open up her Bookstore, Hobby Shop and Short-Order Restaurant in a desperate attempt to bring in some income. It was only marginally more profitable than John’s surgery, but every little bit helped. She regretted, however, the inherent unnaturalness of the situation. Women with careers, to Elly’s limited way of thinking, were not truly women at all.

She gasped with relief as she made it to the top of the stairs and headed down the hallway to Elizabeth’s room. Once she had thought that Elizabeth, by virtue of a brilliant marriage to Anthony Caine, might be the one to lift the Patterson Family up in life. But since her terrible indiscretion, Elly knew they would be lucky if her eldest daughter came through this ordeal with her reputation intact. So much depended on the next few weeks … if all could be concealed for just a little while longer, Elizabeth could rejoin society with no one the wiser …

Her mouth set in a grim line, she opened the door to Elizabeth’s bedroom and immediately let out a horrified gasp. “Elizabeth! Come away from that window at once!”

Elizabeth Patterson threw her mother a sour glance, but complied. Wearily she sank on her bed and looked at the breakfast tray disinterestedly. “Ew. Eggs, again?”

“A good morning indeed!” Elly huffed, fixing her daughter with a stern glance. “What was the meaning of that, I’d like to know! Standing by the window where anyone might see your condition! And as for your breakfast, I’ll have you know every last bit of that is home-cooked by me! The least you can do, after you’ve disgraced us so, is to show a little gratitude towards your father and me. After all, we kept you home when others might have turned you out on the road to starve!”

Elizabeth flushed a dark red. Picking up her fork she took a tentative forkful of eggs. “No one was about, Mama, I peered through the curtains first to be certain. I was just looking towards the harbor, to see … to see if …”

“To see if that dreadful Indian was there!” Elly finished. “You know perfectly well he is not, your father sent him packing with a large flea in his ear when we first discovered your disgrace, as you well know.”

“I wish you wouldn’t blame Paul for everything!” Elizabeth burst out passionately. “I am as responsible as he for …”

“Not another word!” Elly sternly admonished her daughter. “The less said about this terrible thing, the better. Why, I can hardly bear to look at you the way you are right now! Another few weeks and thank goodness, all should be well once again. Are you going to eat that muffin?”

…

Paul Wright and Warren Blackwood stood together near the fo’cs’le of the Marie Chantal, watching as Ship’s Accountant Anthony Caine walked slowly up and down the deck, pausing every so often to admire his reflection in a bit of polished brass.

“Look at that jackass,” Warren muttered. “Why is he here? What does he do anyway? I can’t believe Captain Kelpfroth let him on the ship.”

“Cap’n’s a good man,” Paul said, his dark brown eyes against the sun narrowed against the sun. “He hates having Caine on board as much as any of us do, but he’s not got a choice.”

“Not so long as Gordon Mayes owns the ship,” Warren agreed. “Caine’s been working for him for years now. Guess we’ll have to put up with it.”

“Just a few more days for me,” Paul said with a cold smile. “Soon as we reach Montreal and I collect my pay, I’m gone.”

“Wish you’d stick around,” Warren replied. “I know I’m not supposed to talk about her, but it’s got to be hard for you, working on the same boat as Caine and her goofball brother. But it’s just this one voyage, and it’s a short voyage at that.”

“It’s more than that,” Paul said. “There’s nothing for me here. I only left my village to be with … well, there’s just no reason to stay.”

“Look,” Warren said sympathetically, “I also moved here because of her, and you know how I feel about that whole mess. But, even keeping in mind that she technically has yet to tell me that our relationship is over, maybe you should try and work things out with her.”

“No,” Paul said, his handsome half-indigenous features dark with a barely suppressed rage. “It’s too late. Elizabeth’s father told me that she was through with me. Told me she’d chosen Caine over there, and said she wanted me to go back to my own kind.”

Warren shook her dark head in disgust. “Bitch.”

“It’s over now,” Paul shrugged. “I’ll head back to Mtigwaki, find a woman there, settle down. You’re welcome to come if you want.”

“I might just!” Warren laughed. “I’ve heard some of the women there are very pretty.”

Paul laughed. “Some of them are, all right. I’ve got one in mind for you, a girl I used to know. She teaches up there.”

Warren laughed, and said, “Well, clearly we’ve got the same taste in women, so I’ll trust your judgment. Then again, maybe I shouldn't—”

WHUMP! KRASH! BANNGGGG!

The two men looked at each other, startled by the muffled sounds coming from below decks. “What the hell was that?” Warren asked.

Paul shrugged. “The galley’s just below us. It’s probably Michael Patterson trying to peel potatoes or something.”

…

“Who-who are you?” Michael whispered, slightly afraid of the mysterious figure looming before him, but excited nonetheless. “Are you … are you a stowaway?”

“Yeah, man,” the figure replied. “But, like, I don’t dig labels an’ stuff like that, I’m in to just being me, man.”

“Uh, okay,” Michael said. “Well, uh, my name is Michael. Michael Patterson. I’m a writer, but I’m working as cook’s assistant on the ship right now.”

“Groovy, man!” the figure exulted. “An artist! I’m an artist too, I do daguerreotyping but like serious daguerreotyping.”

“Well, I write serious stories,” Michael said, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. At last, someone on board whom he could talk to as an equal!

“Cool, man,” his new friend replied. “I’m Josef Weeder, but you can, like, call me Weed.”

“Pleased to meet you, Weed,” Michael said, extended his hand. “If you don’t mind me asking, where do you hail from? Your language is quite unusual; in fact, I don’t think I’ve heard it’s like before.”

“I’m, like, from all over, man,” Weed replied, returning Michael’s handshake with an equally weak grasp. “But most recently from the States. Down south. I’ve stowed away on ships, like, coming up the Mississippi an’ all an’ I finally made it on to this ship. I’m, like, heading to Montreal.”

“Oh, me too!” Michael exclaimed brightly. “I’m establishing an important Naval Career so that I might marry my childhood sweetheart. Why are you heading to Montreal?”

Weed eyed him suspiciously. “Before I, like, tell you anything man, I gotta trust you. How do I know you can, like, keep a secret?”

Michael pursed his lips, his brow furrowed as he pondered this. Then, hitting on the answer, he solemnly extended his hand and crooked his pinky finger.

Weed’s thin lips formed a smile as he crooked his own finger in Michael’s. “Okay, man. So, like, I’m on the hunt, you know?”

“The hunt?” Michael parroted, confused.

“Yeah, man. I’m after treasure, man! Like, the treasure that was stolen from my family.”

“Gracious!” Michael breathed. In all his sheltered life, he’d never met anyone with such an exciting story to tell. “What kind of treasure?”

“It’s like this, man,” Weed said, settling down on a case of limes. “Like, man, my maternal great-grandmother was a Cherokee Princess an …”


LC

Chapter 4

Aft on the quarter deck our gallant captain stands,
Lookin' out to windward with a spyglass in his hand.
What he is a-thinkin' of we know very well,
He's thinkin' more of shortenin' sail than strikin' the bell.

From Strike the Bell, Traditional Chanty


“Michael Patterson!” shrieked Ship’s Cook Lawrence Poirier. “You’re supposed to be peeling those potatoes, not slicing them! And for pity’s sake, be sure to cut the eyes out, we don’t want them to see to jump out of the pot!”

“Sorry,” the newly minted cook’s assistant muttered.

“I should hope so!” the Ship’s Cook huffed.

“I’m doing the best I can,” Michael Patterson replied sullenly.

“Well, it’s just not good enough,” Poirier sneered. “Although having personally eaten that slop at your mother’s Bookstore, Hobby Shop and Short-Order Restaurant, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. My God, that was the worst meal I’ve ever eaten in my life! Some dreadful concoction of greasy chopped meat, rancid fish and noodles and this dreadful strawberry cream mess for the sweet!”

“Sorry,” Michael muttered again.

“Well, never mind. Get a move on with those potatoes. I’ll start seasoning the chicken and … now, where did my tarragon go?”

Michael hunched his slender shoulders and redoubled his efforts. He knew he was very slow, but he couldn’t help it. His slim, flawless hands were meant to hold a pen, not a paring knife! Still, he was just intelligent enough to realize he’d better make good at this new assignment. Captain Kelpfroth had made it very clear that if he didn’t, he’d be thrown off the ship. Possibly before landfall.

“Oooh, darn it!” Poirier was sighing through pursed lips. “It’s not here. Patterson! Run to the storeroom and fetch me some tarragon, will you? It should be in the back with the other spices, in a box labeled ‘tarragon.’ Do you think you can find it without lousing it up?”

“Aye aye, sir!” Michael sputter, saluting, accidentally nicking his forehead with the paring knife in the process.

“You’re not supposed to salute … oh, never mind. Get moving.”

“Yes, sir!” Michael said. He put the paring knife down and sprinted towards the door as Poirier rolled his eyes.

…

Lady Deanna Sobinski made an undoubtedly lovely picture as she sat on the settee in the formal drawing room, her mother by her side. Deanna's honey colored hair was arranged in the latest style, and her dress with its seventeen rows of flounces and yards of lace was the height of fashion. She was fully aware that her visitor, the distinguished Captain Brad Luggsworth thought so as well.

“And so you see, Lady Deanna,” her visitor was saying from the settee opposite her, “we were able to rescue the crippled ship and all aboard.”

“How wonderful, Captain Luggsworth!" Baroness Mira Sobinski gurgled. “More tea?”

“No, thank you Madame,” Luggsworth replied, his eyes never leaving Deanna’s face.

“Well, then, if you will excuse me, there is something I must attend to in the other room.”

“Of course Madame,” Luggsworth rose. “I am sure Deanna will entertain me in your absence.”

“Indeed,” Baroness Sobinski said with a knowing smile as she swept from the room.

Luggsworth turned to Deanna, who sat silently, eyes cast down. “Lady Deanna? Have I offended you in some way? You’ve hardly spoken two words to me since I arrived.

“No,” she said, her full lips pursed. “It is not that, Captain Luggsworth. That is to say, you have done nothing to offend me. But this situation is untenable.”

“Let us speak frankly,” Luggsworth said, sitting next to her. “You have known for some time my feeling for you run deeper than mere friendship.”

“Yes,” Deanna replied. “And I have always made it clear to you that while I find you quite attractive, enjoy spending time with you, and that my skin tingles and my knees quiver whenever I am in your presence, my heart belongs to another.”

“Ah, yes,” Luggsworth’s voice was grave. “The able Michael Patterson.”

“Yes,” Deanna’s voice was unusually firm. “You see, Captain Luggsworth, I have known him since I was a child. Even then we had a great affection for each other, and I always supposed that …”

“But,” Captain Luggsworth interrupted, “this is true for you and me as well. We too have known each other since childhood, and were affectionate even then.”

Lady Deanna nodded. “True. But sir, there is this. I met Michael when I was seven years old, while you and I did not make our acquaintance until I was eight years of age.”

“Ah,” Luggsworth’s handsome face betrayed no hint of the aggravation he felt. They’d had this conversation before.

“You see my dilemma, Captain Luggsworth. While there is but a mere year’s difference in the length of my acquaintance with you and Michael, I have known him longer. Thus it is Michael, and not you, who is my childhood sweetheart.”

“And thus the man you must marry,” Luggsworth replied gravely.

“It is the way of things,” Deanna agreed.

Luggsworth rose. “Well, my dear Lady Deanna, I respect your opinion in this matter but hope that you will respect the desire of an importunate lover such as myself to hope that this opinion might change.”

Deanna cast her eyes down again, blushing. “Sir, you are welcome to call on me as you wish. But I fear my mind is made up.”

Luggsworth grinned crookedly. “We’ll see about that.”

…

Michael Patterson groped through the dark storeroom, trying to find the spices by sense of touch. He wished he had a candle, but candles had been forbidden him since his second day on the ship when he …

WHUMP!

Michael started. At first he was concerned that he had blundered once again, knocking something over. If he had, dollars to doughnuts it would be something vital to the ships operation and …

PLOOOMPF!

This time he was quite certain he had not caused the noise. Rather, it seemed to be coming from the back of the room. He moved cautiously towards it.

“Hello? Is … is anyone there?” he called, his voice quavering the slightest bit.

“Hey, man!” someone said in reply.

Michael peered into the gloom, his eyes adjusting enough in the dark to make out a pale-skinned figured, wearing clothes as dark as his long, jet-black hair …


LC

My eleventh great grandfather was a pirate!

More Windjammer! this weekend, possibly tomorrow night.

LC

LC