Dermid Returns

*Dermid enters the Albatross after a good weeks full absence. He grabs a stool and pulls it up to the bar next to Willem McDough, the proprietor of the Albatross, and gives a good cough to wake the Scotsman who seems to have fallen asleep in the recent lull of activity.*

So Willem.... what do you see for this place? I, myself have high hopes. *sits back and gestures for an ale* I've been looking for good timber and I believe I've found some in the nearby hills that will make fine raw material. I've also been quite hard at work at my craft and I do believe that my skills are improving by the day.

*looks around the small tavern and finds it appearing empty at the moment*

I see you're still apt to finding a way to keep yourself useful... that stool continues not to float away so long as you keep yourself perched upon it. *gives a short chuckle to himself as he prods his old friend* What of Hamish or the others? Have you seen or heard from them lately or have you been more concerned with keeping that stool in place and keeping watch on the darkness behind your lids?

Just as Willem was going to retort to Dermid, Hamish walks into the tavern in a rush. He seems to not notice anyone inside as he stares out the door for a moment. Suddenly he closes the door, jumps to one side and presses up against the wall. Outside a couple shouts can be heard both male and female. A large bearded man stares into the tavern through one dusty window and then moves on. As the shouts die down a bit, Hamish takes a peak out the same window that the large bearded man stared into. Seeming relieved he turns to the other patrons and smiles mischieviously.

"Tha' was a wee bit clowsa thun Ah'm likin'. She's more'n willin' o' course, bewt thun she tells me, 'Me 'usband's comin' 'ome taday.' 'Usband? 'Oh, aye,' says she, 'Ah, gewt hitched las' month. Meant ta tell ye, bewt does et really matter?'." Hamish takes a seat next to Dermid and removes his tri corner hat.

"Does et mat'er?? Apparently tae 'er 'usband et mat'ers. Almos' tewk a ball in me nugget, Ah did. Willem, yer strewngest wha'ere ye 'ave. Two o' thum!"

"So Dermid, 'ow's tha ship buildin businuss? Ah'm thinkin' abewt movin' me operations tae New Orlans. Tha Frenchies seems tae 'ave a nice bit o' land up arewn thur. What ye think, mate?"

Hamish down the first tankard of ale while Willem was filling another. The second cup was accompanied by a steaming plate of potatos and lamb. Hamish tore into the plate with gusto before Dermid even started his reply.

*looks up slowly from his glass*

My goodness Hamish!! To think I was concerned... *laughs to himself and at Hamish all in one gesture*

I guess all is better with the health if you are able to cause that type of trouble. I'll venture that the "ball in me nugget" was nothing more than a close miss, but I won't be go investigating that anytime soon. To think I had you taken as put up in a bed somewhere.

It is good to see you and at least you've woken Willem. I thought for a moment the old log had closed his eyes for good.

New Orleans.... Up upon the mainland... I hadn't really ever thought that far or that grand. I've been searching here about the local regions and I think it will do for most of my needs. It is a bit interesting to consider something grander though..... It might well be the better path to glory if you know what I mean... But I'm not sure about the mainland.

What do you know of the place? It has been many a year since I've lived off anything more stable than a large hill of sand.

Jon, who had been overhearing the whole conversation decides in all of his drunkin wisdom that his two pints would mean alot...

*walks over and stares at the three with a small grin on his face*

"Ye want t' venture t' New Orleans, huh? Know yer French an' speak it fas'er mate. Aye do dey dislike spaniards but if ye walk'ff the hull with 'ny such King Richard tongue dey shant be tinkin twice 'bout draggin ye behind der steeds..."

*Jon looks over at Willem, opens his eyes full and looks as though hes preparing for a speech*

"Aye, I t'ink its 'bout time for t'is lad t' resign for t'e night. *Raises mug* an' a good day t' ye all *Looks around at a seemingly empty pub*"

*Jon walks for the door half coherent mumbling away*

As Jon heads for the door, the door opens and Wilhelm enters the Albatross.

"Heading home, Jon? Be careful, it looks like there's one heck of a storm brewing."

Wilhelm looks over to the three at the bar.

"Ah well, if you wont share a few drinks with me, perhaps Hamish and Dermid will. I'll have my usual Willem."

"So what is the topic for the evening, gentlemen? New Orleans? I can't say I'm that familiar with it. I'm sure I'll have cause to go there soon enough though."

*Jon watches Wilhelm as he walks passed him*

"Aye? a'd let t'is place be outnumbered by sober people I t'ink not my hessian friend"

*Jon walks back over to the group*

"..a'd if its true I don't want to be wanderin out t'ere when it starts pissin' t'e seas all over me. I got plenty of t'at in Dublin capitaine."

Hamish began to respond to Dermid's question around a mouthful of potato when Wilhelm and Jon came to the bar.

"Eh, et's gewd tae see ye both. Jon, ye're smellin' like tha swill Willem feed 'is pigs. Ye 'ad yer monthly bat?" Hamish says and slaps Jon on the back. "Wilhelm, ye 'Essians 'ave trouble 'oldin' yer spirits?"

"New Orlans. Wull frewm what me sources'r tellin' me, Orlans es rich in timber'n wit' a bit o' travel further inland thur's ore tae be 'ad. Though et can nae be too easy tae get inland ah'm thinkin'. Still et's surrounded by French ports an' tha' may give us a bit o' breathin' rewm. Though, ah'm nae a 'undred percent sure ah'm ready fer movin' frewm Mar'inique yet. Still et was worth considerin'."

Hamish dug back into his lamb and potatoes, finishing of the plate and then gulping down his second tankard of ale.

"Oh, bewt ah've also 'eard tha' tha Brits'r movin' ships around dewn near tha Antillies. Makes ye wonder wha' thu'r wantin' dewn there."

After taking a seat at the bar,

"I think maybe Jon asked for the hardest thing Willem has. I think maybe Willem gave it to him. I think I don't want to know what that might be."

"Or maybe he's just been drinking since sunup."

"Regardless, there's plenty of goods near the Antilles, so I wouldn't be surprised if the British were to make a serious attempt to seize control of trade near there."

"Tricky business. On the one side of the coin there'll be plenty of fat British merchants waiting to make charitable donations to the Confederacy coffers. On the other side, mayhaps there will be too many British cannons waiting to make charitable donations to our hulls."

"Not that I'm opposed to a good fight mind you. Its a matter of the odds, is all."

*Raises a mug to Wilhelm before quickly finishing the tin and slamming down upon the bar.* It is good to see a life return to this place. Was worried for a bit she might be closing down but it appears as if all is well.

*Peers out of a window and says under his breath, "Storm is brewing aye..?"*

Work calls lads and I'm setting sail this evening. I'm heading off to the towards the Antilles for a good long trip. Maybe we I return I'll have some first hand information to share with you.... at least that is my hope.

Keep an eye on Jon until he sobers up enough to know the urinal from the ocean. I'll be back... and hopefully with good news of some riches that we need to get our little hands upon.

*with that he simply slides out the door of the Albatross after a brief nod and wave*


OOC: Gone to the beach for vacation. Be back in about 10 days.

*Jon watches as Dermid leaves the pub*

"Aye, an' t'en t'ere were t'ree souls remainin in t'e good ole Albatross. I hope he be returnin wit' some wort'y news."

*Jon realizes just how drunk he is and sets his mug down*

"Willem let us see if I can't get one of t'em Lamb an' Potatoes t'at Hamish was mass'crin!"

*Willem digs into his vat of potatoes meat and broath and hands Jon a steaming pile of food*

"T'ank ye mate, If only t'e potatoes here were as good as t'e ones I had back on my island... *Looks at plate* t'is would no doubt become a feast."

Hamish had waved his goodbyes to Dermid and chuckled at Jon's drunken slurs, while clapping him on the back.

"Ye 'Essians'r nae gewd at 'oldin' yer drink, eh? Hah! Bewt yer fine sailin' men an tha' es gewd enuf."

Hamish drank deeply as Jon dug into his potatoes and gave his comments. He was about to give his own critique of the food when the door to the tavern came open bringing with it the sting of the stormy wind. Hamish hunched into this coat a little more and as it closed he turned the the sound of an unmistakably French accent. He turned to find a man standing in the door.

“Pardon me, messieurs,” the man said in lightly accented English, after having taken a few steps closer to the gathered men, “but I am looking for a certain Mr. Hamish MacBane, and I have been told one can often find him here...”

Hamish took the look of the man for a moment and then glanced at his friends cautiously. He cast a quick glance to Willem who nodded ever so slightly to Hamish. Hamish nodded back and stood.

"Ah'm Cap'ain MacBane. What cin ah do fer ya?" Hamish said with a confident smile.

Hamish's coat had opened in the front and the unmistakable butt of a pistol could be seen jutting from his waistband on his right, while a sword hilt could be seen on the left. Two more pistols were situated in his front on a leather harness, as well a dirk could be seen shoved into his right boot. Most of what could be seen looked meticulously cared for. He waited for the newcomers response.

Wilhelm affects an air of detached interest, seemingly implying that while he has nothing to do with the Scott or the Frenchman, he is interested nontheless in the new arrivals declaration.

"Associates? I'm not sure what you mean, good sir. I am simply here sharing a drink with a fellow Hessian, taking refuge from the coming storm. Mr. ... Mc Blane(?), has been good enough to keep us company."

Hamish looked at Wilhelm and Jon, though Jon was apparently busy with his potatoes, and then back to the French officer.

"Ah gewt a letter, aye. An' et 'ad a name on et, bewt wha' can ye give me tae show yer who ye say ye are, eh? Et's nae tha' ah'm untrustin', bewt ah'm pret'y mewch untrustin'. Ye see, e'ryone what seem tae be lewkin' fer me ain't gewt me bes' intrests in min', ye see?"

Hamish stared at Emile for a while more to see what reaction would come. He looked back to Willem who simply rolled his eyes and kept to cleaning some glasses. Hamish turned back to Emile and let out a loud laugh while pulling the Officer closer to the bar and clapping him on the back.

"Hah! Bet Ah 'ad ye goin' eh? Ye gewt tha nod frum Willem an tha' is gewd enuf fer me. Willem seems tae know stewf Ah ain't sure 'e should know, bewt et works owt fer me. So, 'ow many ships ye bring wit' ye? Wha' kind o' support cin we expect frum tha Crown, eh? Three, four ships o' tha line? Aye, that'll send tha English basta'ds runnin' mark me! Oh, thus es Jon and Wil'elm. Lads, thus es ower represen'ative frum tha King. Goin' tae make sure ower ships do nae get sewnk an' tae bring some big guns tae bare. What'r ye drinkin' then?"

Hamish sat back on his stool and took another long drink.

"Ah, I see. So Hamish, this is the leader of that Naval escort you promised for my merchant ships, is it? Its hard to be a legitimate merchant without protection in these parts. I know you lot have been doing your best to help my defenseless ships, but some big guns would be most welcome."

Wilhelm leans over to wisper something to Hamish.

*Jon looks up from his potatoes*

"Aye, Good news bear it t' all, now me money won't be goin down t' visit posieden mates. It's good seein our French brethren in t'e fight against t'e English. *Shakes Emile's hand* Jon Rollsbach's t'e name if ye hadn't heard already, it'll be a pleasure drinkin wit' ya in t'e comin days mate."

*Jon looks back down to his plate and resumes shoveling food."

Émile greeted each of the men in turn with a cordial smile and a handshake, happy to finally meet even only a handful of the Highland Confederates he had heard so much about.

After taking a seat at the bar with them, he said “Thank you, messieurs, for the warm welcome… but it seems as if I cannot live up to your expectations. As of now, the only support I can give you is, unfortunately, a single schooner. The King, in his wisdom, thought it best to only dedicate very few resources to your cause in these early stages.” Émile paused a moment to gauge their reaction. Though he gave them the King’s official reason, he knew they would understand its implicit meaning. The French government was, at this point, only willing to make a show of their support. Despite Émile’s own lobbying for their cause, they could not expect any further investment of matériel until it could be shown the potential gain outweighed the very apparent risk. Were he in their position, he would be outraged by such a lack of faith. “Politics…”

((OOC: This was the only plausible thing I could come up with that would explain both the schooner starting ship and the lack of other naval officers...))

"Reality is rarely so kind as we might like. I suppose we must simply show our worth then. Maybe there are some promotions for you in line if you stick with us, hmmm? We'll have you captaining a first-rater before you know it... I hope."

"Bah! Royale King's on thur royal arses!" Hamish cursed. "Per'aps 'e thinks tha sea es like ridin' aroun' on 'is pret'y 'orses wit' a guard all abewt!"

Hamish looked around the tavern and then lowered his voice. The Confederacy had very few friends outside their own number. England would hunt them as rebels and the sea was not a place to be without some friends.

"Wull, et isn't yer fault, mate," Hamish said with a sigh. "We were nae thinkin' we'd get even tha' tae be honest. Et'll 'ave tae do. 'Ow many guns es tha' schooner o' yers? 'Ow many tae crew'r?"

The sound of the wind is rising and the rain begins to sting. A tall man in a blue naval vest and pants quickly rushes his duties and signals for his crew to seek shelter. As his men scatter from the ship, he loosens his vest, raises it to hover his head and he begins to search for shelter himself. "The Albatross" is the first tavern he sees. Speedwalking to the door he hears mild chatter from within its walls.

The door swings open and the sudden relief from the rain comforts him. Upon entering, a few men are eating and drinking and the bartender eyes him.

"Bonjour, monsieurs! The rain is br'tal this evening, eh?" He shakes his vest back to its rightful position and water quickly hits the tavern floor. "My name is Cap'n Jacques Brodeur of za frenc' navy. I 'ave just made port to searc' for an offic'r of ze 'ighland Confederacy. Any chance of one bein' in my presence at za moment?"

His accent is thick, but his english is direct and understandable.

*Jon looks at the man that just entered and squints a bit*

"Wha's it t' ya mate? *Jon slips his hand under the table and lightly holds his pistol* Ye see any ole person t'at jus' ganders in an' asks 'bout officers is almost always look'n t' carry someone off to t'e stockades. My problem wit' t'at mate is t'at I'm not much of a fan of t'e stockades ya see."

*Jon looks about at the other men*

"So state yer business an' state it quick for by t'is time we all can feel t'e cold end of our weapons."

*Jon looks at the man with a smirk*

Hamish listens to Emile give his account of his ship and smiles a bit. This one was clearly a new officer in the navy and not yet trusted with the more expensive ships, however the fact that he did not speak of his ship with any less confidence spoke well of the man before him. He nodded to himself. This man would do he thought.

"Wull, yer seein' tha bulk o' them noew. We 'ave a lot cewmin' tae our numbers o' late, bewt we star'ed small. Thur are still some more o' us abewt, but mostly out tae see currently. They'll be filterin' in as tha wind blows 'em I suspect. Lewk at et thus way. If'n thur aint tha' many o' us tae guard, tha less work yer lit'le schooner'r 'ave tae do, aye?"

Hamish laughs and claps Emile on the back. Just as he does so the door bangs open and another man with the look of a French Officer comes in. Jon is the first to answer and so Hamish simply sits back and readies himself, waiting for the newcomer to respond to Jon.

Emile speak first and gives his judgement of the new officer. Hamish relaxes a little bit and looks at the man Jacques.

"Aye, so what's brinin' ye here then. Emile 'ere says 'e thought 'e'd be tha only one fer comin' tae ower rescue." Hamish chuckles, "Tha King 'ad a change o' 'eart an' sent us a ship o' tha line then? Not tha' ah'm complain' min' ye, bewt one can nae be too careful, aye?"