- Local time
- Today 6:36 AM
- Messages
- 613
- Pronouns
- he/his
A scarred, weathered man with a brown mustache and twinkling periwinkle eyes clapped his hand on the creaky doorframe and leaned into the galley. "Oi! Greg, me boy! Didje hear Little Jim--"
"'E's been promoted today, Tom!" Greg, a barrel-chested man with an angry gray cloud of hair storming all about his head except for the very top of it, bellowed a laugh. "Sure is working his hands to the bone for his pay...." He shook his head and gave a good clap with his weathered, meaty hands, from which a cloud of flour poofed out . "We'll buy a round for him when we reach port!"
Tom, the scarred man, grinned toothily. "Cannae jest buy one fer 'im alone? How about yer ol' bo's'n, Tom?"
"Don't forget Eddie, up at the topsail - all day!" Greg laughed heartily. "All day, Tom! D'ye rememmer how 'e stayed up there, when ye tol' 'im it were bad luck for a seagull to nest, in the Crow's Nest?"
Tom waved his hand, somewhat bashfully dismissing the memory as he pushed himself back off of the door jamb of the galley. "Well? We wer'n't o'er-canvassed b'cos o' 't...."
"Too right, too right," Greg bubbled happily, grinning, and gutting one fish after another. "We won't be underway much longer now, Tom. Just a couple o' weeks now, back t' port? Lord, you and the boys been rollin' her like thunder to bring her back home! I half wonder how we're not in the foam."
Tom's smile began to fade, and the twinkle in his eyes winked out entirely as his gaze settled to the floor.
Greg gutted another fish before he realized the change in demeanor. "Tom!?"
The weathered sailor shook his head. "Dis'pline's becomin' a prollem, Greg."
Greg stopped just shy of cutting his hand with the boning knife, his attention focused on Tom's news. He set the fish and knife on the counter, and took a step forward. "Well? There's an end in sight, innit? Sailin' with ye's not always been a pleasure, o' course, but we're through with our plunder. We'll haul her back home...."
"The helmsman is itching to dock. None o' us been on land seven months to the day," Tom started, crossing his arms. "Cap'n Jack says another one's not worth the treasure, e'en w' that fat merchant vessel we jest let slip. The striker wa'n't on 'is game, and the gunner's well on 'is way. We're down t' our last barrel, and just a handful o' splinters it is, at that. And John...."
Greg was wiping his hands on a towel, an alarmed look on his face, mouth gawking. "The surgeon? What of 'im?"
Tom shook his head grimly. "Th' boom came 'round. Wrecked as a mule."
Greg knocked back a tot of grog and make a breathy, exasperated noise.
"If th' Navy catches sight of us, we're in fer it," Tom said, looking back up to Greg. "The yeoman says our powder's soaked through and through, 'n' th' sailmaker's glass' all but weathered and frayed. But e'en ol' Swishy One-Eye c'n see th' storm rollin' up on us...."
"Here," Greg said, shoving a cask into Tom's arms. Tom staggered a little, not having been ready for it. "Give 't t' th' swabbies. We'll keep up th' spirits, and a night on the strong stuff is long o'erdue, innit? And, we'll buy one for th' first mate, too, when we're out o' th' storm! One for all o' th' mates!"
Tom's lips twisted wryly, the realization that Greg had been holding out some fine drink dawning in his eyes. He was angry for the subterfuge, but undeniably it would have been a greater problem if everyone had been enjoying the booze over the course of their voyage.
"I'll be servin' up fish - again, yes - soon as I can, but then I've a fo'c'sle song t'write," Greg mumbled loudly, busying himself. He could scarcely keep his mind focused on any one thing, feeling a great sense of urgency to try to lift the spirits of the crew. He grumbled a little about those who'd never found their sea legs confusing shanties with fo'c'sle songs - something which annoyed him greatly every time they went to port, and such folk asked him to sing one for them. Such folks had never seen the inside of a forecastle, much less had any clue what went on therein, but their coin was good, and Greg was as fine a singer as he was a cook.
He did not sleep that night at all, but stayed up all night, and well into the next day, cobbling together the song and practicing an arrangement on the fiddle. Tensions were high on board, but by the time the evening rolled around, he gathered the crew he could to the forecastle, and played and sang for them. Everyone, even Tom, was glum and grim at first, but Greg and his singing and fiddling finally brightened their moods and coaxed them all into singing the chorus with him. The captain, though he never spoke of it aloud for fear of bad luck over such things, credited Greg with staving off mutiny long enough for them all to make port.
Disclaimer: To the best of my understanding, Colm McGuinness composed the song, and not a fictitious cook who may or may not have totally been a pirate.
"'E's been promoted today, Tom!" Greg, a barrel-chested man with an angry gray cloud of hair storming all about his head except for the very top of it, bellowed a laugh. "Sure is working his hands to the bone for his pay...." He shook his head and gave a good clap with his weathered, meaty hands, from which a cloud of flour poofed out . "We'll buy a round for him when we reach port!"
Tom, the scarred man, grinned toothily. "Cannae jest buy one fer 'im alone? How about yer ol' bo's'n, Tom?"
"Don't forget Eddie, up at the topsail - all day!" Greg laughed heartily. "All day, Tom! D'ye rememmer how 'e stayed up there, when ye tol' 'im it were bad luck for a seagull to nest, in the Crow's Nest?"
Tom waved his hand, somewhat bashfully dismissing the memory as he pushed himself back off of the door jamb of the galley. "Well? We wer'n't o'er-canvassed b'cos o' 't...."
"Too right, too right," Greg bubbled happily, grinning, and gutting one fish after another. "We won't be underway much longer now, Tom. Just a couple o' weeks now, back t' port? Lord, you and the boys been rollin' her like thunder to bring her back home! I half wonder how we're not in the foam."
Tom's smile began to fade, and the twinkle in his eyes winked out entirely as his gaze settled to the floor.
Greg gutted another fish before he realized the change in demeanor. "Tom!?"
The weathered sailor shook his head. "Dis'pline's becomin' a prollem, Greg."
Greg stopped just shy of cutting his hand with the boning knife, his attention focused on Tom's news. He set the fish and knife on the counter, and took a step forward. "Well? There's an end in sight, innit? Sailin' with ye's not always been a pleasure, o' course, but we're through with our plunder. We'll haul her back home...."
"The helmsman is itching to dock. None o' us been on land seven months to the day," Tom started, crossing his arms. "Cap'n Jack says another one's not worth the treasure, e'en w' that fat merchant vessel we jest let slip. The striker wa'n't on 'is game, and the gunner's well on 'is way. We're down t' our last barrel, and just a handful o' splinters it is, at that. And John...."
Greg was wiping his hands on a towel, an alarmed look on his face, mouth gawking. "The surgeon? What of 'im?"
Tom shook his head grimly. "Th' boom came 'round. Wrecked as a mule."
Greg knocked back a tot of grog and make a breathy, exasperated noise.
"If th' Navy catches sight of us, we're in fer it," Tom said, looking back up to Greg. "The yeoman says our powder's soaked through and through, 'n' th' sailmaker's glass' all but weathered and frayed. But e'en ol' Swishy One-Eye c'n see th' storm rollin' up on us...."
"Here," Greg said, shoving a cask into Tom's arms. Tom staggered a little, not having been ready for it. "Give 't t' th' swabbies. We'll keep up th' spirits, and a night on the strong stuff is long o'erdue, innit? And, we'll buy one for th' first mate, too, when we're out o' th' storm! One for all o' th' mates!"
Tom's lips twisted wryly, the realization that Greg had been holding out some fine drink dawning in his eyes. He was angry for the subterfuge, but undeniably it would have been a greater problem if everyone had been enjoying the booze over the course of their voyage.
"I'll be servin' up fish - again, yes - soon as I can, but then I've a fo'c'sle song t'write," Greg mumbled loudly, busying himself. He could scarcely keep his mind focused on any one thing, feeling a great sense of urgency to try to lift the spirits of the crew. He grumbled a little about those who'd never found their sea legs confusing shanties with fo'c'sle songs - something which annoyed him greatly every time they went to port, and such folk asked him to sing one for them. Such folks had never seen the inside of a forecastle, much less had any clue what went on therein, but their coin was good, and Greg was as fine a singer as he was a cook.
He did not sleep that night at all, but stayed up all night, and well into the next day, cobbling together the song and practicing an arrangement on the fiddle. Tensions were high on board, but by the time the evening rolled around, he gathered the crew he could to the forecastle, and played and sang for them. Everyone, even Tom, was glum and grim at first, but Greg and his singing and fiddling finally brightened their moods and coaxed them all into singing the chorus with him. The captain, though he never spoke of it aloud for fear of bad luck over such things, credited Greg with staving off mutiny long enough for them all to make port.
Disclaimer: To the best of my understanding, Colm McGuinness composed the song, and not a fictitious cook who may or may not have totally been a pirate.