The Black March had veered hard to port matching the Red Wraith’s bearing. I was not a sailor by any means, nor was I one of the many privateer raiders employed by Mackett. I had served in the King’s Navy for a few years as a doctor, a position I had almost no formal training in. I was now this crew’s doctor and I have been told that the lengths at which I discuss my profession are both disturbing and boring so I shall speak of my job no further. It bears no import to the tale I must spread.
As I roamed the top deck of the frigate, I watched the men as they struggled back and forth with the riggings. A vessel of this size can hold only so many sails; the Black March boldly chose to ignore those limitations. The vessel caught wind and surged forward with a vigorous outburst as the sails whipped taught against the ropes. The Black March groaned heartily at the pace and pulled towards the Crimson Wraith that had been waiting out at sea for our return. Being such a large vessel the Crimson Wraith had to maintain a deep water draft. Loaded down with cannons as it was the vessel was very slow and couldn’t float in to the bay without running the risk of shoring.
The Black March pulled alongside the giant patch work vessel. I saw Commodore Mackett at the helm, his tell tale red coat, rumored stolen from a French noble, and patched eye told of him against the less notable traits of his crew. He stood there staring towards the horizon with all the drive and focus of a man who knows where he is going and what will happen when he gets there. The Black March was easily half the size of the Crimson Wraith and the larger vessel had to drop a boarding plank for the men to climb. The men aboard the Black March busied themselves with the transfer of supplies to the larger boat. More than a few of our sailors would be going aboard the Crimson Wraith to stay. With the transfer of supplies under way I decided to venture below deck and see to the men who waited for their shift atop the vessel.