Dirty Pierre
(Captain de Tours to you) reached over to refill my glass with
the apple mead we had seized from an English merchantman that morning. We
were in port in Antwerp, and we were celebrating. I put my hand over my
glass, and said, "Thank you, no. I’ve had enough."
Faylan, our First Mate, gave me a sneer and said, "some drunken sailor you
are. Are you sure you’re Irish? You’ve barely wet your whistle. Come on!
Drink with us."
Looking at the expectant faces scattered around the inn’s public room, and
the bright eyes of the lady who ran it, I sighed and said, "Well, I’ll tell
you why I imbibe only in moderation. It all started years ago, in a public
house in Dubh Linn Town."
- :: -
I was hunched over some poteen, and somewhat less than sober, when someone
raised a glass to Queen Bess. I raised my mug and said loudly, "God Keep
the Queen!" and then, under my breath, "that Tudor whore." Only, being
slightly inebriated, it came out louder than I intended. The sound of steel
leaving the scabbard cut through the sudden quiet, and the fog in my head.
I realized I was in no condition to fight, and outnumbered to boot. I did
the only sensible thing. I ran.
I lead a growing throng of drinkers, citizens, and guarda on a merry chase
through the slums, alleys, and rat runs of Dubh Linn, until I reached the
River Liffey. My luck was holding: a troop ship was seasoned English troops
at the other end of the docks. With little other choice, I sprinted up the
gangway of an armed merchantman. The last thing I saw was a belaying pin
coming down on my head, followed by the strange sight of the bottom of the
hold coming down on top of me.
- :: -
I was born in 1538 in Munster, Eire, the second son of a family of six
children. We are distant kin to James FitzGerald, the Earl of Desmond, who
currently rots in Her Majesty’s towers in London. One year, our cattle
blessed us with hoofed gold, and, since I would not inherit, my father sent
me to the College of Saint Claire, in the hope that I would find a way to
support my self. There, I learned some of the finer arts that my native
Munster could not teach me: History, the sciences, the use of the rapier,
and the art of the sapper.
Upon my return, I found the rustic life I had left no longer suited me.
Raising cattle bored me. With the Earl locked away, even the pleasures of a
backwater court were denied to me. To protect my family name, I took the
name "mac Fhionndara," son of the white oak, and sought fortune in the
service of James FitzMaurice, the Captain of Desmond and cousin to the Earl.
We harried the hated English as best we might in what is now called the
First Desmond War.
FitzMaurice thought my education would make me a good spy, so he sent me to
the Pale to spy out troop movements, which is how I ended up in a tavern
full of off-duty guardsmen.
- :: -
I came to, with a throbbing hangover made worse by the knot above my temple
and the sway of the ship. In front of me was a Scotsman, finely dressed,
but saved from foppery by his scraggy beard and hair. He was Ian Muir,
called Keyard, the first captain of the Firedrake. He had a parchment and
quill in one hand, a vicious-looking dirk in the other, and my sword in its
scabbard slung over his shoulder. I signed up for a two-year hitch on the
Firedrake.
After serving my term, I went home to my family, only to find smoking ruins.
My parents, brothers, and all the field hands lay dead. My only consolations
were that my sisters were safe with their husbands. I spent the next days
consigning their bodies to the ground, and the nights huddled against
scorched stone walls.
- :: -
The Firedrake is my home now, and her crew, my family. So fill my glass,
Pierre, and I’ll raise a glass to her, and to you, my brothers and sisters.
Slainte!
