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| To Scare A Midshipman {Mutiny}; Dauntless, Marines/Navy | |
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| Topic Started: 14 Dec 2007, 12:03 AM (534 Views) | |
| Royal Navy & Marines | 14 Dec 2007, 12:03 AM Post #1 |
Master of Puppets
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Musket shots rang out almost immediately after the echoes of the signal cannon faded into memory. Two sentries tumbled to the deck, felled by the lead balls, as a handful of mutineers appeared from below. A fistfight broke out seconds later, as the sentry outside the officers' section of the ship was beset by white-coated mutineers. The unlucky sentry was quickly beaten and dragged away, and just as quickly replaced by a pair of mutineers. On the middle gundeck, seamen were awakened by the shouting and a single musket shot, as another loyalist was knocked down by a lead ball as he tried to charge a mutineer with his own bayonet. Confused and alarmed by the sight of the bleeding marine lying on the deck, the seamen offered little resistance to the handful of mutineers running forward. Topside, the bulk of the mutineers were engaged in pitched combat with the seamen who had been working on deck. None of the men saw the huddled form in blue, taking cover behind the great wheel. If they had, they'd have leapt at the chance to capture the midshipman of the watch. |
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| Quintin | 16 Dec 2007, 06:28 PM Post #2 |
Deckhand
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OOC Warning for bad language Quintin was resting unquietly in his hammock slung belowdecks; not that his dreams were terrible, but he was snoring like twenty chainsaws. The sonorous buzzing rose rhythmically from out of his nose, and Higgins on his left shifted and jabbed him hard in the ribs with an elbow without ever actually waking up. Quintin had snored so long that those who were off-watch with him could sleep right through it now, although they still maintained a conditioned reflex reaction of a hard kick to his shins or elbow to his ribs. Each time, the motion would set all of the closely-packed hammocks swaying, but no-one woke up to that either. Likewise, Quintin also slept right through the knocks that came his way. However, in his dreams he found himself suddenly yanked out of the rather pleasant scenario in which he wore the trim of a Sergeant, and instead he was marching for miles and miles over a sharp and rocky terrain with Sergeant Myles prodding him along with the butt of his musket. Next to him, a gang of sailors dragged a cannon on a cart. He stirred and muttered in his sleep, and Dream-Quintin stared at the unpromising, endless horizon until all of a sudden it began to wriggle in the oddest way. It was as if it was teeming with ants...until his vision tunneled in, as if he were using a telescope, and he could see that they were men in French uniform. Thousands and thousands of them. Myles' musket butt landed in his side again, and he took a surreptitious glance around him. Five tars, the cannon, himself, and Myles were all they had. The sailors, seeming curiously unconcerned about everything, unloaded the cannon and even though the Frogs were too far away, swabbed and loaded...and then fired. Quintin jerked in his hammock with a start and blinked confusedly up at the wood above him; it had been the signal cannon for the mutiny that had awoken him. The grain swirled in his vision for a moment and then he realised that all around him, the other off-watch marines were also waking up. "What the bloody 'Ell is going on 'ere?" a sleep-fuzzed voice said from somewhere over to his left. Then there was the sharp Crack! of a musket from somewhere over their heads, clearly audible throughout the resonant wooden ship, followed by more shots. "What the bleedin' hell?" Quintin snarled, and thrashed himself loose from the hold of his hammock. He tumbled loose and landed hard on the wooden deck with a curse. "Wake up! We're bloody under attack!" They were at anchor in Port Royal! It had to be the Frogs or the Dagoes attacking the port. Why hadn't they heard the drum beat to quarters? Quintin's muzzy thoughts fumbled with this and then dropped it. He yanked hard on McIntyre's and Higgins' hammocks, to turn them upsy-down and spill his mates unceremoniously down to the deck if they weren't awake already. "Fucking hell!" he swore loudly as he scrabbled quickly over the floor; the checked shirt he'd used as a sort of blanket was nowhere to be found. It had fallen off and was somewhere on the deck, no time to find it. Clad in nothing but his breeches and with nothing but his bare hands, he grabbed Higgins by the back of his shirt and hauled him upright, then joined the mad scramble for the aisle. |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 16 Dec 2007, 11:48 PM Post #3 |
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Master of Puppets
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Posted rated Mature for language.   Corporal McIntyre was swaying slightly in his hammock, still asleep, when the first shots were fired. At first, he did not stir, the subconscious part of him putting the commotion down as part of his dream. A shoving, jeering crowd pressed close in on him, as he was being hurried away from the scaffold on which he'd received his two-dozen lashes, the punishment awarded for his streak of vandalism. The flogging had been years ago, yet his back stung as sharply now as it had immediately afterward. Frowning, the Irishman shifted, trying to get away from what he believed to be a sharp rock grinding against his back. "Wake up! We're bloody under attack!" He stirred, the raging fire of the open wounds on his back fading into safe memory. For an instant, he was awake, but then was asleep again just as quickly. The shout was just another dream just beginning. Then something crashed against his hammock and upset the canvas contraption, spilling its occupant onto the deck with a yelp. "What in the bleedin' - " Somebody grabbed his arm. "They're shootin' up top, Corp'ral!" McIntyre blinked and recognised Carter's face after a moment, then the other marine was gone, shoving past him on his way to God-only-knew-where. "Fucking hell!" That was Quintin's voice. McIntyre cast about blindly for his coat before remembering that he'd crawled into his hammock still wearing it. His sword was on the floor and he grabbed it up, tossing the crossbelt over his head as he joined the rush of half-dressed marines hurrying forrard. "It's them Dagoes!" Somebody yelled. There was the sound of a fist driving against bone and he heard Davenport snap, "Dagoes nothin', you English shit!" McIntyre bulled his way through the crowded aisle, shoving marines carelessly aside. "The arms room, lads!" The corporal cried, pushing one marine toward a discarded drum. "Grab that up and beat to quarters, you've heard it enough times to know it!" Behind the mad crush of marines, Lachlan grimaced. There would be no getting topside with this lot blocking the way. The Scotsman turned about and headed aft, his dark kilt swishing against his bare legs. In his haste to clamber out of his hammock, he'd knocked all his off-watch clothes onto the deck. The only article easily accesible was his kilt, so he'd hurriedly pulled it on. His shirt hung loose and half-tucked around the garment, but he hardly cared. "C'mon, Jenkins!" The two marines dashed toward the aft ladder and scrambled up, well aware that they were unarmed. The sporadic crack of musket fire from topside reminded them sharply of that. Lachlan paused just shy of the open hatchway, alert for approaching feet. There was an arm hanging down from one side of the opening and the Scotsman pulled on the arm, bringing the body of a seaman tumbling toward him. "Grab his cutlass," he hissed to Jenkins, as he relieved the dead sailor of his short knife. The Scotsman cautiously peeked over the edge of the hatchway and was dismayed to see the only combatants on deck were marines and seamen. "Ain't Frogs or Dagoes, s'our own bloody sailors!" Jenkins was forced to scramble up the ladder after Lachlan, for the Scotsman heaved himself onto the weather deck in a single, powerful motion. The two marines got only a handful of steps toward the fight when, to their complete shock, one of the marines whirled toward them and fired. The ball found its mark in Jenkins' shoulder and he was on the deck in an instant. Lachlan grabbed the cutlass from him and took hold of his shirt collar, dragging him back aft in double-quick time. It was as he was dragging Jenkins toward the relative cover of the stairs leading to the poop deck that he spotted the flash of blue behind the great wheel. An officer. He left Jenkins with his cutlass and ducked back into the open. A musket ball whined past him as he sprang up the stairs. It wasn't just an officer, but a midshipman, cowering behind the great wheel. Lachlan grabbed the back of the boy's coat, giving no thought to the appearance he must make to the lad. "Gerrup, sar!" |
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| James Norrington | 31 Dec 2007, 03:45 AM Post #4 |
Norrington, James Norrington
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The moment everything started going wrong, O'Brien at least had the knowledge to drop down and keep himself alive. It was a step in the right direction, he figured. Instead of just freezing up as he was apt to do, he dropped to the ground and hid behind the wheel, tucking himself into as small a ball and form as was possible--which wasn't difficult. He was already a naturally small child, small for his age--he hadn't hit his spurt yet, and while normally that was normally maddenly unhelpful, this time it was turning out to be quite an advantage. He didn't even bother to look and see what was happening. Instead he shivered as he heard the muskets fire and the sounds of the mutineers fighting against the loyalists of the crew. He hoped that none of them would spot him back here hidden...well, hidden as best as he was, though in fact the hiding spot did leave a lot to be desired. If he could have gone below decks and managed to get into the hold there were any number of good hiding spots that he'd have had his pick of. When he heard men the sound of someone...scraping over the deck towards him. Below him, if the sounds were any good indication. The sounds didn't stop and leave however. The continued right towards him, and O'Brien didn't know whether they belonged to friend or foe. His right hand moved across his body, reaching inside his coat, over his left hip where his dirk was. He grabbed the hilt, and held on so tight, that if anyone were to see his his hand it would be white. All the sudden though--whoever it was got a good grip on his coat and clothing. He was being hauled up and spoken too, but all O'Brien could do was make a strangled noise as his neckstock was pulled tightly against his throat, briefly cutting off his breathing. "Gerrup, sar!" "Lemme go!" O'Brien said, quickly pulling his dirk from his scabbard, and trying to swing out wildly at the marine. He hadn't quite gained a good footing, and his balance was off...plus he was swinging in the wrong direction. His wild slash missed the marine badly, though he did manage to right himself and face the marine without landing flat on his back. "Stay back!" he yelled at the marine, shaking his dirk as a warning to come no closer to him, "stay back, or I'll have you!" |
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| Quintin | 4 Jan 2008, 04:04 AM Post #5 |
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Deckhand
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(OOC - Shite post and a total cop-out. Sorry. My brain ran away and I couldn't squeeze any more from my empty skull.) He'd lost track of McIntyre; his mate had yelled out to get to the arms room and then charged up to the head of the pack. Quintin leaned forwards, lowering his head and presenting one broad shoulder foremost, then tried ramming his way through. Around him, the off-duty marines were finally all awake and out of their hammocks, but they'd closed in, the press of bodies jostling together choking off the aisle and blocking all forwards progress. In front of Quintin, some man blurted "It's them Dagoes!" The fellow was unlucky enough that the half-Spanish Davenport heard, and the dark-faced private whirled and punched him in the face. "Dagoes nothin', you English shit!" Quintin seized the front of Davenport's shirt, the material bunching up around his fist, and hoisted him into the air before he slugged his free hand into the man's gut. The slighter private's breath wheezed out of him, and the Dorsetman lifted him straight off the deck and roared into his face. "English shit, you bleedin' fool? Have you turned yer coat?" Even though he was still struggling to draw a breath, Davenport's foot lashed out into Quintin's shin, and Quintin snarled and slammed a heavy fist into the side of his head. Davenport's eyes rolled back in his head, and Quintin let him drop, to be trampled underfoot by the marines in the aisle. Someone somewhere'd found a drum and was roll-tap-tapping a shabby imitation of beat to quarters. The shaky rhythm hardly helped add any organisation to the men, but the mass of half-naked marines had finally crowded for'rard towards the armoury. Quintin had battered his way to the front, breaking past the rest of them to the side of McIntyre. The seamen on the gundeck were standing around like a pack of bloody bovine idiots, til a musket cracked and one of the men in the front row, next to Quintin went down with a scream, holding his hands to his ruined face. The shot had come from the armoury. As he dropped down next to Sweeney, checking the man over, (he'd stopped screaming pretty quickly, and his hands had fallen away from his eye, where the musket-ball had lodged) Quintin saw a man, in a plain white coat, darting back behind the door, which shut behind the fellow. It was the damned Frogs, they were taking the ship, and they'd seized the armoury! He leapt upright again, his face black with fury. "Stinkin' sons of bitches!" |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 4 Jan 2008, 04:38 AM Post #6 |
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Master of Puppets
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  Post rated Mature for language OOC - Powerplay of O'Brien, to get him out of "harm's way". IC - "Lemme go!" Lachlan released the boy at once when he heard the familiar rasp of metal on leather. He brought his knife up to block, in case the midshipman's strike came close, but he was fortunate. The midshipman slashed at empty air and Lachlan flicked his hand out to seize hold of the boy's coat again, relieved somewhat that the lad had swung round so they were face-to-face. "Stay back!" The boy yelled, waving his dirk. "Stay back, or I'll have you!" This wasn't the time to be pretending to be brave. Lachlan curled his lip and knocked the lad's hand aside, his annoyance getting the better of him. "Shurrup an' git below, sar!" The Scotsman pushed the boy toward the stairs, following close behind with a wary eye on the fighting still going on up forrard. It would be just his luck if the bastard who'd shot Jenkins decided to come aft and take another crack at the two loyalists. Speaking of loyalists... where the bleedin' hell were the others? Lachlan stopped short, his face going pale. "Oh Christ..." He hadn't seen what was happening with the marines ahead of him, before ducking off for the aft ladder. There were probably sailors mutinying as well, which meant his mates below-deck were probably in the worst of the fighting. Somebody had gotten hold of a drum and was hammering away at it, the universal shipboard call-to-arms. Shouts and colourful curses echoed faintly up from below. Lachlan couldn't take the midshipman down there, not knowing what was happening. Nor could he stay topside. Either way, they were both in for a rough time. Blimey! He thought, as a white-coated mutineer barrelled toward him with bayonet-tipped musket. All he had to counter was the short-bladed knife. The Scotsman grabbed for the triangular blade with his free hand, managing to turn aside the mutineer's bayonet, but at the expense of nasty slices to his fingers and palm. Christ that hurt! Grinding his teeth together, he flicked his knife out in an upward slash that laid open the mutineer's throat, from collarbone to jaw. "Arr, f'ckin' hell!" Lachlan forced himself to look down at his injured hand and grimaced. That hurt a lot. He would have to dress it himself later, however. The midshipman hadn't moved from where he stood, which was very bad. "Git below!" Lachlan snapped again, giving the boy a helpful shove toward the ladder with his injured hand. The contact of his torn flesh against the rough wool brought tears to his eyes, but he ignored the pain as best he could. He had to retrieve Jenkins, or else those bastards would find him and most likely give him a bayonet or two through the middle. To his surprise, Jenkins had gotten to his feet somehow and was staggering toward him, cutlass in hand. Both marines ducked a couple of wild shots and practically flung themselves down the ladder, Jenkins almost landing square on the midshipman at the bottom. "Sorry 'bout that, sir," the wounded marine said as he recovered his feet. "Better find a place t'hide, sir, we dunno who's friendly an' who's not." ~ He'd gotten past the main crush of bodies, but the marine he'd pushed toward the drum had begun playing a really shite rendition of "beat to quarters", which was drawing the seamen from their hammocks in a confused and babbling rush. "Every one of you, close your gobs! Means shut up!" The corporal bellowed as he shoved through the press of sailors. "Clear a path, lads, let me through!" A way cleared for him as the sailors moved away, eyeing him suspiciously. He realised they didn't know if he was a mutineer or not, either. But why weren't they jumping him, if they were unsure? He was vastly outnumbered and could very easily be subdued, were the sailors of a mind to take him prisoner. None such event occurred and he guessed that it was due to the marines closely following him forrard. A musket cracked and he ducked, his hand curling immediately around the hilt of his sword. The shot hadn't come his way, however, and he pressed forward, ignoring the marine who'd been hit. The arms-room door was thrown shut, however, and he paused. He wasn't in a hurry to get himself cut to pieces by trying to force his way into the arms-room, but neither could he let those blackguards remain in possession of such an important room. "Boatswain!" The corporal yelled, suddenly having an idea. "Bo'sun, an' a gun captain!" A burly seaman appeared at once, lifting a hand into the air. "I'm a gun cap'n, starboard division." "Good, splendid. Bo'sun!" McIntyre kept a careful eye on the door to the arms-room, half-expecting the mutineers concealed within to come bursting out at any second. Where the hell was Matheson? There he was, about bloody time. "What's all this madness?" McIntyre beckoned the two seamen close. "I need one of these cannon cast free an' brought about to bear on that there door. We got a mutiny goin' on, an' there's some bastards holed up in the arms-room." Matheson's expression hardened and he nodded stiffly. No further explanation was needed. "Williams, Donahue! Bear a hand here. Timlin, pick yer crew," he added, addressing the gun captain who'd come forward. The marines backed away as the sailors went to work, heaving at the thick ropes that held the cannon in place. McIntyre watched the arms-room door while the seamen grunted and pushed at the heavy cannon, muscling it into position. This was not going to be pleasant at all. |
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| Quintin | 19 Feb 2008, 01:37 AM Post #7 |
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Deckhand
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Quintin was still convinced it was the French they were fighting - with their coats inside out to show the white linings, the mutineers weren't instantly recogniseable. And despite the constant murmurings and dissatisfaction, his mind couldn't wrap around the concept that his own mates were turning against them. He hadn't heard Lachlan shout, nor had he seen the face of the man in the armoury. The blood risen to his face, he charged forward with McIntyre and a wave of the marines, but the armoury door was shut tight. They could hear nothing of the men on the other side. Quintin, impotent to act, slammed one hand against the bulkhead and snarled. He twisted his head around to look to McIntyre, trusting his mate to have come up with something. They had to get into the armoury if they were to have any hope of retaking the ship. Dauntless was as close to a home as anything else. McIntyre didn't fail him. "Boatswain! Bo'sun, an' a gun captain!" Quintin's mouth curled into a grin as he caught onto the plan. He wasn't clever like McIntyre, and it'd have taken him a much longer time to think of it on his own, but he could follow once the idea was suggested to him. A man stepped forward from the seamen. "I'm a gun cap'n, starboard division." "Good, splendid. Bo'sun!" Quintin wondered if the men inside the armoury could hear what was going on. They probably only spoke Frog-ese, and had no idea of what was about to be turned on them. Nevertheless, he was uneasy about the door. None of them were armed, and though by sheer weight of numbers they should be able to overpower the men holed up in the armoury, it wasn't a good thing to face bayonets with your bare hands and half-naked. Matheson appeared as well, the bullish fellow grunting, "What's all this madness?" The man was as dumb as a clod, hadn't he figured it out yet? "I need one of these cannon cast free an' brought about to bear on that there door." Quintin had seen it coming. They'd blast right - "We got a mutiny goin' on, an' there's some bastards holed up in the arms-room." Quintin's mind was briefly wiped empty of all thought. He heard Matheson shouting orders, and watched as the tars freed the gun carriage and lugged the cannon into the aisle, the deck timbers squealing underneath the friction of the several tons of weight. Mutiny? It was their own men fighting against them? There was no questioning his friend's account of the matter, but he could hardly believe it. It was impossible. It had to be the French. "Fuck," he swore, his face twisted up. All the quiet talking, the whispering in corners, even the tentative sounding-out that he'd been given by Durham - all the clues, everything he had refused to look directly at was dropping into place now. Though he didn't want to see it, his mind was lining things up. There was something odd in the pit of his stomach, but more than anything else he felt a surge of sheer fury that outweighed every other sensation. 'Somethin' should be done about it all.' He was going to kill that scum-sucking Durham and the rest of the bastards, if he had to do it with his bare hands. At a touch on his shoulder, he made a guttural noise and turned on the other man with both hands ready to do what he'd just promised himself. "Get outta the way, Mikey," Higgins muttered, and Quintin blinked. The gun-crew were just about set up. They'd levered the cannon to bear directly on the armoury door, elevated with handspikes to point slightly upwards at the top of the door, securing the ropes to handle the recoil. He moved back with the rest of the men and McIntyre, well away from the door. Raising his hands to his head, Quintin shut his ears as the gun-captain shouted and touched off the fuse. They'd loaded the 18-pounder with a single-shot and reduced the gunpowder charge, the full violence of the explosion was unnecessary at this close range. But the flash and roar inside of the ship was deafening, even with his ears stopped up. The corridor filled with the choking, stinging cloud of powder-smoke. Freed from restraints, the cannon could have flattened half the men standing behind it, but the ropes held it, vibrating and singing after the sudden tension. Quintin dashed forward, towards the armoury. The door was smashed into splinters, and the roundshot had buried itself into the hull. The wood had done more damage than the iron. There had been four men in there. One lucky bastard had been torn in half by the shot itself, but the others had been shredded by the deadly explosion of the door. He couldn't see any recogniseable faces, for which he was grateful. "'Ow many of 'em was in there?" Higgins asked, and Quintin grimaced. "I count seven hands...three an' a half?" He glanced at McIntyre next to him. "Looks like most of the stock is ruined." |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 22 Feb 2008, 07:07 PM Post #8 |
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Master of Puppets
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 All the noise and chaos that broke out suddenly awakened him from sleep with a start. It's too early for the marines to be at musket drill! was his first thought as he tumbled out of his hammock in a disorderly rush. He was only half-dressed, lacking his waistcoat, cravat, frock, and shows, but he managed to get the latter two onto parts of the body they were meant for without too much trouble or delay. "What in blazes is - " Reed began as he exited his tiny cabin, but he interrupted his own sentence when the sounds of musket fire seemed to intensify from on deck. That was bad. He looked around briefly, wondering where the other officers were. Then he heard the ragged roll and tap of a drum, and he realised that the marines weren't at musket drill. Men were shouting from up forrard, their voices sounding confused. Reed hurried forward, determined to figure out what was going on. There were marines crowding the aisle outside the arms room, he discovered as he got closer to the ruckus. Marines and seamen alike were packed closely together, all of them apparently keenly observing something that was as yet blocked to Reed's view. "Stand aside there," he said sharply, pushing his way into the press of bodies. It was slow-going through the crowded aisle, but he managed to get close enough to whatever was fascinating the men and see it for himself. What the devil? They'd cast a cannon loose and had hauled it around to bear on the arms room door. Reed was aghast. What were they doing? The lieutenant shouldered a sailor aside and called out, "Belay that, what are you - " Just as he pushed his way clear of the crowd, a burly seaman touched the faintly-glowing linstock to the touch-hole and the cannon roared. Reed staggered backward, in part stunned by the huge thunderclap of sound and in another part trying to avoid having his feet crushed by the recoiling gun carriage. It was as if someone had set six churches' worth of bells ringing inside his skull. Feeling dazed, a state not helped by the cloud of powder hanging in the air, Reed stared at the slightly-fuzzy outline of a red-coated marine nearby, trying not to feel as if the world was spinning beneath his feet. Several men had moved toward the now-shattered arms room door and it looked as though they were chattering. He couldn't help wondering what about, for he couldn't hear anything except those damned bells. One of the marines... was that Corporal McIntyre? Reed squinted into the powder-haze and decided that it was, even though he wasn't fully sure. The marines definitely were speaking however, he could see their mouths moving and forming words. But what were they saying? A hand latched onto his sleeve and Matheson the boatswain appeared before him, looking gruffly concerned - insofar as he ever did, at least. He was saying something to Reed, who unfortunately wasn't very good at reading lips. The lieutenant shook his head, trying to stop the God-awful ringing in his ears. "What!" He shouted. ~ McIntyre was one of the first to reach the blown-in locker door. It was literally a bloody mess inside, but he felt no sympathy. Other marines crowded around, surveying the carnage with varying degrees of disgust. " 'Ow many of 'em was in there?" Higgins asked. "I count seven hands...three an' a half?" Quintin answered, then glanced at the corporal. "Looks like most of the stock is ruined." That was true, but McIntyre judged that there were enough muskets left mostly undamaged that they could make a good fight of it. "Start handin' 'em out, to our lads first. Pass the swords and axes on to the Tars. Here, give that box here," he said to Higgins, who had just picked up a heavily-chipped long box. This he passed out to Frazier who was standing almost directly behind him. The salvageable weapons were quickly removed from the devastated locker and passed out amongst the crew. McIntyre chose not to take a musket, but took a pistol from the long box that Frazier had opened up. There was a Navy lieutenant present now, but if his slightly-dazed expression and loudly shouted "What!" were any indication, he had been caught unprepared by the cannon. It would be awhile before the poor lad's ears recovered. He would've liked to defer to the lieutenant, but in the man's present state... he wouldn't be any use. "Tie your neckrags round your right arms, lads," he said to the tars. "I don't wanna be cuttin' down any loyalists." As the sailors moved to obey, McIntyre gestured to his marines to come in close. "Now listen," he said once they had gathered closely around. "I dunno who's takin' part in this bloody mutiny, but it's a sure bet they're dressed just like they're on watch. These Tars ain't gonna want to fight if they don't know what they're fightin' against, which means..." the Irishman felt nearly sick suddenly, and swallowed hard in an effort to dispel the queasy feeling that was settling in the pit of his stomach. "Which means we gotta be the first ones on deck." It didn't help his unease when Higgins looked wary, asking "What 'bout the officers?" "I dunno what's happened to them," McIntyre answered. "They're either hidin' or they've been taken already. Look..." he added, cutting Higgins off before the other marine could speak. "Now ain't the time for arguin' or jawin'. Pick out a buncha Tars an' go aft with 'em. Secure the officers' cabins an' search the lower decks for any of the middies. Take Carter with you." Looking cross, Higgins backed out of the tight circle and moved off to gather a group of sailors. McIntyre made a face and said, "You lads know the business. They ain't our mates no longer. Make any one of 'em that surrenders prisoner, but don't let 'em talk you into nothin'. They ain't worth a bayonet 'tween the ribs." The corporal looked up, at the nervously waiting sailors. "I want lads at every ladder. Nothin' goes up or down, 'less it's got a rag on his right arm. Form by gun divisions, Bo'sun, an' follow us on deck. We're takin' our ship back." |
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| Deleted User | 23 Feb 2008, 11:29 PM Post #9 |
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Groves was, he would be ashamed to admit, dozing in his cot when the signal cannon was fired. He’d long since put down his quill and given up even attempting to wade through letters and such that he should attend to with his free time; the cabin was stiflingly hot, even with the stern windows propped open and the guns run out. He woke at the boom of the cannon, listening for reply shots or a knock on the cabin door for his attention. The harsh crack of musket fire brought him completely awake however, and he was up and out of the gently swaying cot as fast as he could manage, snatching up his coat and sword belt. Shrugging on his coat but leaving it unbuttoned and abandoning his neckcloth, he snapped on his belt and quickly loaded his pistol. A precaution only, he hoped, and the Marine Captain was practising drills. The sounds of a scuffle taking place on the other side of the wardroom door put paid to that idea. Clearly they were under attack, but it seemed rather odd that not one man on watch had noticed anything untoward until now, or reported on the reason for the gunfire. He opened the door to be confronted by a pair of white coated men. “What -?” he managed, before one, having no time to fire, swung his musket at Groves’ head. He ducked, attempting to grab the man’s weapon, and failing, brought up his own pistol to fire into his face. The other, blinded by the sudden pistol smoke, swung a glancing blow with his fist on Groves’ head, which despite not being full force, still caused his eyes to water and nearly prevented him from blocking the bayonet heading his way. He brought up his pistol out of reflex where the blade bit deep into the wood, distracting the man long enough for Groves to pull out his sword and flick the blade through his neck. He slumped against the doorframe, panting heavily. He’d been lucky, and he knew it, having already loaded his pistol before he ventured out to investigate the noise. Standing there for a brief second however, looking down at them, he frowned. Were they not marines? But dressed in what he now recognised as coats turned inside out, that must mean – mutiny? Groves started slightly when the general background noise of sporadic fire and shouting was broken by the sudden stuttering of a drum, someone attempting to beat to quarters by the sound of it. He ducked back inside to find some fresh powder and quickly reload should he need it, than rushed back out to try and order the chaos. Several minutes of being jostled by a hoard of half dressed marines and seamen were suddenly brought to a halt by the boom of a gun firing. Surely no one had attempted to fire one inside the ship? “Move!” he shouted at the mass, managing to push his way through in time to hear Reed shouting “What?” when addressed. “…we're takin' our ship back." he just about heard as he pushed to the front. “Alright, what is the situation?” he asked, eyes fixing on McIntyre. |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 24 Feb 2008, 12:13 AM Post #10 |
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Master of Puppets
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 The Tars started to break up into their divisions when he'd finished speaking, which granted him a few precious seconds to consider what he'd just ordered them to do. Even though he and his marines would be the first ones on deck, there were more Tars than marines, so it naturally followed that they would end up coming off the worse for it after the fighting ended. It was going to be a disaster no matter how it came out. And it was suddenly worse. An officer appeared through the pack of sailors, looking appraisingly at everything else before settling his gaze on the marine corporal. Not just any officer, either. Of course not. It had to be Dauntless' first lieutenant. McIntyre suddenly felt hopelessly stupid. At the very least, he'd lose his shoulder knot for ordering the cannon to be fired in-board. The more he thought about it, the more stupid an idea it seemed, even though it truly had been the only option readily available. Self-doubt, however, was the worst thing he could be entertaining; especially right then. “Alright, what is the situation?” McIntyre saluted. "Some of the lads are mutinyin', sir. Dunno why or who all's in on it, but most of 'em are up topside by the sound of it. Was just about to take these gents up top to cut 'em all down." The edge in his voice was like hard flint, the only outward sign of his fledgling bitterness. Some of the traitors could very well be from his own section and that was completely unacceptable. He would go after those men first, if there were any. "Haven't seen any other officers, 'cept for you an' Mister Reed, sir," he added, indicating the still-dazed Reed. The third lieutenant had been watching closely and seemed to grasp that he was being talked about, for he shouted "What!" and looked between McIntyre and Groves almost pleadingly. Smith shook his head. "Prolly got his ears blasted by the cannon." That made sense but there was no time to accommodate the temporarily-deafened lieutenant. McIntyre offered his pistol, butt-first, to Groves. "Comin' with us, sir?" O'Brien's part of the post pending |
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| James Norrington | 20 Mar 2008, 04:36 PM Post #11 |
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Norrington, James Norrington
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O'Brien had reached that sorry state where he was devoid of any fluids with which to cry or even wet himself. He'd tried to stay out of the way as much as possible, sitting in a corner, not even daring to speak. After all, what could he say? He'd only been serving on the Dauntless for five months. He'd never been in a real battle until now, and all the drilling in the world, while it might prepare you for a ship to ship battle, or maybe repelling boarders...how the hell was one supposed to prepare for this? The tears O'Brien wanted to cry now were not the result of fear, no, he'd gotten more or less over that, high on adrenaline still, but tears of shame. He'd hidden when the fight had first broken out, and he couldn't help but think how ashamed of his son, his father would be were he to look down and see his actions. His father had died in battle--glorious battle, his mother said, and he knew that he should have imitated his father's example and lept into the fray and fought. He should have displayed great courage...but he hadn't. He didn't have any courage. He was such a disgrace. He stood up and moved over to where a gathering was, careful to pick his way through the sailors (or simply slip between them, as his diminutive size allowed for), to find McIntyre, Groves, Higgins, and several others, including a worried looking Reed off to the side. "Comin' with us, sir?" O'Brien swallowed, upset once again that he had failed his father, failed the Commodore, and Captain Gillette who had agreed to have him come and serve under their command here at Port Royal, and to have disappointed all the men for which he was supposed to be setting an example for. Instead, they were setting the example for him, and he couldn't even live up to it. What a useless disgrace. "I want to come too," O'Brien said, speaking up. |
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4:04 AM Jul 30
