"Why if I didn't see it with me own eyes..." John Jilkey stood on the main deck of the Bloodhawk ordering the cannons into silence as the spectral, blazing bowsprit of the l'Abattoir broke through the Spanish ship, which was crumbling fast, the bow already dipping below the waves. When the stern followed suit, and the fires had faded so that the strange ship was barely visible, it began to move forward with nary a single sail, and pull alongside the port rails of the 'hawk.

Since the fires had died out, Jilkey wasn't able to see a man on board the decks of the devilish ship, and until he heard familiar voices call out as they came out from below decks cheering, he wasn't sure any of his shipmates were aboard her.

"Captain Pelham!" Jilkey called out upon seeing him, and was filled with relief.

"Captain Jilkey, how fares the Bloodhawk?"

"Not near as bad as she should be, if you hadn't arrived. They were toying with us, and that's why we're afloat still."

"Can you make for Tortuga? I can't see the Governor of Port Royal welcoming you into the dry dock after this little affair."

"Aye! We can get the 'hawk there without difficulty, even should they come looking for us."

The two men shook hands as the ships were made fast together.

"So, I take it you're signing on with l'Abattoir?" Worsley asked, a wry smile on his lips. When Captain Pelham nodded, Worsley introduced himself, "I am, as you no doubt have guessed, the inventor of l'Abattoir, and her master. My former employer saw no reason that his clerk's musings should see light of day; I've been laughed out of the offices of the naval powers. I have seen ships made by the former and those bearing the flags of the latter to the bottom of the sea, and shall continue to do so."

The work aboard was simple, as he sailed the ship himself - man the guns, serving more as marines than sailors. Even shares for all, and that was that. In addition to those who had already served, they took on more crew to bring her to a full complement of sixty men, in addition to the four officers, the captain, and Worsley himself.

As they made the Bloodhawk ready to sail, the first thing they did was raise anchor, and allow l'Abattoir to tow them to sea. Despite the early hour, they could see stirrings ashore, and knew it would not be long before several Navy vessels were sent to investigate, including, most likely, the Alahandra's sister ship. As soon as the 'hawk had sails out, they cut the line and l'Abattoir set out her sails as well, racing from Port Royal before the sun rose over the wreckage of the man o' war.


End of Act I

"...and you just ran away?" Captain Pelham leaned over Jilkey and the others, his voice carrying over the still night waters from the Bloodhawk's mooring in the outer harbour.

"Aye," John Jilkey, quartermaster of the Bloodhawk said, "Three losses, and not a damn sight of the man. That boat is an infernal machine."

"That it is. L'Abattoir, you said?"

Jilkey nodded, "That is the name beneath the name, if you get my meaning."

"I have heard of the craft before, she seems to be gaining some notoriety, although perhaps now I know why I've heard naught of crew nor captain. For the love of God, I can't see how that little man can manage her on his own." The captain paced back and forth before the remnants of the shore party. "Do you speak French, Jilkey?"

( The quartermaster made a face, as if nothing could repel him more... (cut for length) )

Worsley held the stump of a hand gingerly - as if afraid or disgusted, or both - at arms length and let it slip into the sour smelling harbour waters. He placed his hand back in the lock, the five levers sticky-wet with blood, the sharp teeth hidden within their sheathes, waiting to separate more hands from their owners. With some force, he pressed down on the levers, speaking quite clearly UNLOCK and was rewarded with a clicking and a whirring as the low metal bars that blocked his way swung freely.

"They'll never learn," he tsked as he stepped aboard and saw the handless man, facedown on the deck not far from where he had managed to climb aboard - a good jump towards the bow from the gangway. His head had rolled about ten feet away.

Scene Four

Note: Now that it is going to a wider audience, some explanation is needed: when you see something in capitals it is awaiting translation, most likely into French. At this time, I have made little or no effort to determine what these words - or phrases - will be.

L'Abattoir
by Everett A Warren

started November 30, 2006

A mouse among cats is a furtive creature. A nervous creature. A meal.

"Away w' ye!" scowled the tavern master, a heavy jowled, heavy accented, heavy bodied gorilla of a man. Still and all, perhaps the least dangerous one in the room save for the object of his scorn.

"B-b-b-buh-but I do have business here," replied the mouse to the cat, poking his thin-rimmed spectacles back up the thin line of his nose, his voice thin and fragile, like a delicate wine glass set upon a bar amongst overflowing tankards of ale.

"Is that business you have here, good sir, or b-b-b-buh-business!" guffawed the one sitting beside him - no housecat, this one, but a lion, full of mane and wilder than any king of the jungle might hope to be. His companions roared in laughter, lifting high their ale for the jest and for the good natured slap that nearly broke the poor mouse's back.

Perhaps he was not even a mouse: a mere insect, who crawled away as their good humour overflowed and he was no longer its target.

Charles Stefan Worsley stood quickly upon making the door, leaving the noise of the tavern behind him, slinking as best he could down to the docks.

Scene Two