Pirate's Treasure

6 It was a month before the longed for supply ship arrived. “Can you see it?”  It was Matthews, straining to see around the knot of men who were crowding every open gunport, trying to catch a glimpse of the ship.” “Aye, hull up off our quarter.”  came the reply “She looks like the Sprucol, ‘Ol Arnold’s ship.” “Arnold’s a fat one,” laughed another.  “Hope he ain’t eat all our hash!”  This elicited several chuckles. “Whatever's left got’s to be better than the whack we’ve got!” “Jonnick mate, bottom of the barrel for sure!” “Aye, can’t wait for some good grog, that addle’s been piss!”  This statement generated plenty of hearty agreement. Giovanni couldn’t argue.  After his introduction to British Navy rations on the Vitol things had gotten steadily worse.  The grog was watered down so much one could hardly taste the rum and the water had been putrid for the last two weeks.  The average sailor may not have much but he is generally well fed, if not in quality then

5 It was indeed the Penbroke they reached as the sun kissed the horizon.  Even though exhausted from rowing, the men clambered up the side after the officers.  As Giovanni’s head came up over the rail he caught his first glimpse of Captain Augustus Fairbain or ‘Fighting Fairbain’ as he was known after the Gibraltar action.  He and Littlewort were conversing, Littlewort waving a glass of wine was he talked.  There couldn’t be a greater contrast between the two men.  The only thing similar about them was their height.  Fairbain was trim in his blue waistcoat and cream colored breeches, broad at the shoulder with a powerful physical presence barely restrained by his rank and position.  He held himself straight and erect, his mannerisms courtly.  Long, dark brown hair was clubbed at his neck.  His face was thin and long with a finely curved nose.  His light eyes were intelligent, taking in everything at once even as he listened to the animated monologue of Littlewort.  In front of him

4 Giovanni was on his stomach, attempting to get into a comfortable position on the hard floor of the foc’s’le when his attention was diverted to a lot of shouting on deck.  He had learned to ignore most of  the normal sounds associated with the running of the ship, but this was different.  It sounded like some kind of scuffle.   Then he heard Rooke’s booming voice call for order and it was quiet for a few moments followed by the words that still rang in his ears, ‘all hands to witness punishment!’  The next voice was Littlewort’s. “Men,” he began in that shrill, grating voice.  “Discipline and cooperation are paramount on a fighting ship and the bos’un exists to assist me in maintaining that discipline.  Any move, verbal or physical, that questions that discipline will be dealt with swiftly and harshly.”  There was a short pause before he resumed.  “Samuel Higgens did not heed the example we made the other day and will now suffer the consequences.  Mr. Rooke.”      There was a pa