A | B | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14A | 14B | 15 | 16
PART I
MARCH, 1780
ATLANTIC OCEAN, TRADE ROUTE
THE SILVER SHILLING’s bo’sun’s mate (a valet by profession before being impressed aboard the HMS Iphigenia) (though not by Elliott) (who was also extraordinarily talented at firing a swivel) fussed over Elliott’s cravat as if the success of his wedding depended upon it. He had no looking glass and thus must trust Piefke and his assessment.
“You look quite fine, Sir,” Piefke finally announced with some gravity. “You will be sure to impress the lady.”
Lady.
He had not thought of Fury as a lady. “Lady Jacqueline Tavendish,” Elliott whispered, though not softly enough, because he caught Piefke’s quickly hidden amusement. No, he must leave off thinking such things. It was not possible, and Elliott had the best plan he could muster under the circumstances. He must become satisfied with it.
“These togs are quite spare, Piefke. Are you certain of them?”
He sniffed, affronted. “I believe you are better served without excessive ornamentation, Sir.” Then he leveled a significant and bitter glance at him. “You left off ornamentation six years ago. We all did.”
Ah, yes. At his arrest, during which every medal, stripe, and epaulette he and his officers had ever earned and worn were stripped from them all.
“I am not the only one who prefers the pirate’s uniform, then,” Elliott murmured, looking down his body, unable to take a true measure of his appearance. He had forgotten how it felt to be accountable for his sartorial choices.
“The Lady Captain Fury cannot help but approve, Sir,” Piefke murmured.
“We can hope.”
Elliott had been hard-pressed to hide his unusual jewelry from Piefke, but managed. Barely. He had been perpetually at quarter-mast ever since Fury had tossed him out of her cabin to dress. His waistcoat was long enough to hide the fact that he was still a bit stiff—and he did not mind the ongoing sensation at all.
Still, he was nervous. It had been more than twenty years since he had been in Society, and the last time he had worn any type of formal dress was in the House of Lords the year before, which no one saw but his fellow nobles. The fact that he possessed this suit of clothing spoke more to Piefke’s pride in his rightful occupation than any desire on Elliott’s part to attend ton soirees.
“Shall I put your cabin to rights while you are gone, Cap’n?”
Elliott looked around, but saw nothing wrong with it. The floor was relatively clear. Everything was secure. His bunk was a tangle, though.
“Is it that bad?” he asked, bemused. “Fury does not find it to her liking, but I cannot see—”
“I wouldn’t bring a lady here, Sir.”
He sighed. “If it will make her happy, do what you will.”
He left his cabin and swung down to her deck. He popped down the hatch just six feet in front of her cabin door. Like a smitten boy, he hesitated before he knocked.
But his nervousness disappeared as soon as Fury opened her door.
“Almighty God,” he whispered, thoroughly awestruck.
She was a vision in mint silk, heavily embroidered with peach flowers and dark green leaves, her stomacher a work of needle art. Her décolletage was low, the nipples of her already magnificent breasts near to bursting out of the peach-piped edging. It was then he noticed that her stomacher was embroidered in the pattern and color of her scars, to make her ridged flesh part of her gown.
Her hair was elaborately dressed, not powdered nor starched, but with green ribbons and strings of pearls woven throughout the high-piled curls. She wore an exquisitely cut emerald at her throat and equally lovely ones bobbed from her ears.
She raised her closed fan to her breast and clasped it with the opposite hand, revealing another emerald on her middle finger.
“Judas?” she asked in a small voice.
His gaze met hers. “You look … ” he whispered. Though he dabbled, he was an execrable poet and there stood the loveliest woman he had ever met. He could barely manage to speak at all. “My God, Madam! I never would have imagined … ”
He could speak no more, for he had forgotten how.
“Aye, now you know what Dunham looks like gowned,” she said bitingly after he had stared, apparently, for quite a while.
Elliott was shocked into a laugh and offered his arm. “Your hoops are absent, I see,” he drawled as he took the three steps to the hatch ladder.
She sniffed and began to climb. “I made do with hip and bum rolls. Six-foot panniers do not fit through a hatch so well.”
“I told you I would not lavish more praises upon your beauty, no matter how you begged.”
“I did not realize I had done so,” she said haughtily when he heaved himself up through the hole. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was glaring at him, but everyone else was gaping at her.
The ships had quieted and his mouth twitched when he again offered her his arm for the seven steps it would take them to reach the Mad Hangman’s ladder, but she looked over her shoulder and called, “Oh, quit your gawping. You act like you’ve never seen a lady before.”
“Not that one!” bellowed someone from the Silver Shilling.
She turned back to Elliott with a pleased grin.
Soon they were directed to the Mad Hangman’s captain’s cabin, which was bigger than Fury’s, almost as big as Elliott’s, nicely appointed, the bed finely crafted, and all arranged for the cozy comfort of two.
He shook the Hollander’s hand, then made a leg to the missus, who was as exquisitely turned out as Fury. “Catherine,” she said warmly.
“Pleased.”
As they were seated, Elliott slid a glance at the confection of a captain by his side and wondered what it might be like to sail on the same ship with her, sharing the captain’s cabin, being in sympathy.
But no. Elliott could not think of that if he wished to accustom himself to his fate.
The cuisine and wine were Dutch, as was most of everything—and everyone—aboard the Mad Hangman. The Hollander had worked his way up from an eight-year-old ship’s boy to captain of a Dutch East India Company ship, until now he was a large stakeholder. He liked to sail, he answered in response to Elliott’s questioning, but his foray into privateering for the Americans was at once a respectful nod to his wife’s long American heritage and loyalties, and a way to redress his grievances with the British government.
“Which are … ?” Elliott asked.
His bushy blond eyebrow rose. “Are you prepared to tell us yours, Judas?”
Elliott smirked his answer. The Hollander didn’t trust him, and that was all to the better.
He was in the middle of his sixth decade, a fellow whose bluster was of the warm and inviting sort. His hair was still a youthful blond, though the lines on his face and the gray in his beard betrayed him. His wife looked far younger than she was but, Elliott learned, had given the man four children over their thirty years together, one of whom—their eldest son—had perished.
The glint in the Hollander’s eye when he mentioned it answered Elliott’s question. He had never been able to think of a better reason than his own for revenge, but there it was.
The old captain and Fury were at utter ease with each other, owing in no small part, Elliott thought, to the fact that he did not treat her as anything but an equal, no matter the difference in their age or sex.
“You and Dunham are friends then?” he asked.
Hollander shook his head. “Not friends. Acquaintances. I would tire of him soon enough did I spend more than a night drinking with him.”
“They try to outwit each other with their tall tales,” Fury said dryly. “They frustrate each other with their inability to top the other and would perish from lack of sleep in the attempt.”
The Hollander laughed. Catherine smiled. Fury smirked.
And Elliott felt right at home.
The conversation was light, calm, and erudite. Once a dessert of a fruit tart—a vlaai, Fury informed him (then was obliged to spell it for him)—was served, the discussion turned to business.
The Hollander had grown comfortable with Elliott, which was not attributable to the wine. The two of them spoke for quite a while before Elliott noticed the ladies were silent. He looked to Fury, but she waved a hand.
“I have no head for this,” she said airily with an equally airy wave of a hand.
“Nor I,” Catherine admitted with a grimace. “Mary shames me.”
Elliott looked around questioningly.
“Mary served as my clerk for several years,” the man said gruffly, then glared at Fury. “Until some upstart privateer stole her from me.”
Fury snickered. “You got a navigator in return.” She looked at Elliott. “When we sail together, he doesn’t bother. He simply follows me and takes the time and weather signals my crew sends him.”
The Hollander grunted. “She’s the one with the timepiece. There is nothing better than that.”
Indeed there was not.
Elliott almost started when he felt the slightest caress on his inner thigh, then realized how close he and Fury were sitting. He glanced at her, but she appeared to be paying no attention to anything. In fact, she looked far away, as if she were in some stupor.
“Fury?”
She graced him with those whisky eyes brimming with lust and stroked his leg again. Unerringly, she found his prick and pressed against the ring.
The Hollander cleared his throat and stood. Elliott followed suit with as much aplomb as he could manage, thanked them with every major and minor courtesy ingrained into him as both the son of an earl and an officer in His Majesty’s Navy, and escorted Fury out.
“And now,” he whispered in her ear as they made their way back to her cabin. Her only response was to shiver. “I shall teach you my little game.”
If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.
MY GAWD! MY GAWD! THAT’S THE BRO’S MUSIC!
Thanks for posting, Moj. Getting this started with a First.
For real?! Awesome!
I know. Don’t call your doctor if your erection or clamminess lasts more than 3 hours, people. It’s a quite normal response to my Firsts.
Excellent stuff, Mojeaux.
Smutty literature or literary smut?
I’m in, either way.
I dunno. At this point, what difference does it make?
Notice: This book, we have a woman with an extensive sexual history, so there’s lots of sex. In 1520 Main, we had an innocent girl with less than none, and so there wasn’t a lot of or very graphic sex.
Comes down to authorial intent, I think – were you trying to write a sexxy book, albeit a well-written one, or were you writing an adventure with lots o’ sex?
As you say, it doesn’t really matter – it’s both well-written and hot.
Authorial intent. I was not trying to write a sexy book. I never do. Sex is just part of the story. How much, what kind, where, how, etc etc etc totally depends on the characters.
In 1520 Main, I had to put in some sex, because that’s what my readers expect. However, I did as little as I could get away with because I wanted to preserve Marina’s privacy as much as possible.
In Black as Knight, I was on my downhill slide from peak menopause and nothing was sexy to me, but I had to demonstrate Grimme’s sexual appetites, so I wrote Chapter 18, which was difficult and draining and yucky and I still can’t read that chapter. Mind you, this is what menopause did to me. I could not cheap out on that because I had set him up to be a complete dog, so I had to follow through.
So, continuing in the theme of a lot of what menopause did to me, this is part of why I’m not writing. Not the sex. The creativity is just pretty much gone. I have ideas I tinker with, but I don’t know what to do with them without a romantic relationship, and I have zero interest anymore in writing romantic relationships.
If it makes you feel better, the general tamping of the fire is not limited to those who went through menopause.
To misquote the underappreciated Bobby Slayton – “Yes, of course I still want to have sex with you! But I do want to see what’s on Sports Center first…”
Dutch wine? I thought they were much more fond of (and good at) beer. Can’t say anything in particular about the cuisine.
I don’t know from wine. Don’t Dutch people drink wine? Do they grow grapes? I have no clue. Maybe I shouldn’t have put that in.
google AI says
The Netherlands has a growing wine industry with around 200 vineyards producing about 1 million bottles annually, with the most well-known wineries being Apostelhoeve, De Fiere Wijnakker, and De Hennepe.
Here’s a more detailed look at Dutch wine:
Key Regions and Vineyards:
Provinces:
Most vineyards are found in Gelderland and Limburg, with Southern-Limburg sometimes considered a separate region.
Other Regions:
Vineyards are also located in North Brabant, North-Holland, Zeeland, Vijlen, and northern Drenthe.
Pretty much everyone makes wine. Yes, there is Dutch wine.
It is not as significant as even German wine, let alone French, Italian or Spanish. That’s just why it jumped out at me.
I was gonna do a post on Buck Rogers and the satyrs and wine making…but meh…y’all can google
Yes, everyone makes wine.
JI, I spent a few weeks in and out of various German wineries, between going to various other ag facilities with my father on one of his ag trips.
There is a ton of German wine.
Dutch cuisine is justifiably not famous (my godmother was Dutch).
Stroopwafel & oliebollen are the high points and it goes downhill from there. The best things are from elsewhere, as befits their background as a trading empire.
My dad served his LDS mission in Holland. He brought back all sorts of weird tastes, but of the two things we actually partook in as a family (split pea soup and oliebollen), we fluved the oliebollen. I never knew how that was spelled, but I knew what it was as soon as I read that.
He also brought home a fluv of Indonesian food. This was in the 60s.
My dad would hire an LDS kid or single mom any day of the week over a college educated welp. One, he has great respect for your missions. Two, a mom going to night school while pulling full time work and raising kids meant they would put in the work he needed.
Not relevant to this conversation, just something I thought of when you mentioned your dad’s mission.
Listen here you moustacheod, little shit…
pannakouken, Broodje Hagelslag (toast with butter and sprinkles), gin (jenever), Heinekin beer, Delft Univerisity (known for it’s porn colection), etc…
Don’t fuck with the Dutch.
DONT FUCK WITH THE DUTCH!
So, I asked on Twitter lo, these many years ago, for a Dutch name nobody could pronounce so that the captain would be called “the Hollander” instead. A Frisian girl tweeted at me “Gjaltema.”
Good enough, then. Captain Gjaltema was born.
But it was ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY for this man to default to “the Hollander,” because HIS progeny would ALSO become part of the contemporary Dunham universe, where a Gjaltema, a “Hollander,” meets up with a Dunham again in 1985. In Paris.
I didn’t plan it that was when I first introduced the name Mitch Hollander (2004), but I swear it was like the fiction gods were smiling upon me that day so I could weave it into the past like that.
I wish I knew how the subconscious lays groundwork like that so far ahead of what you eventually end up needing.
tonight’s etymology lesson
Brandywine is garbled Dutch for “distilled wine”. They distilled it so it would take up less room on ships. The idea was to water it down later after reaching port, but the sailors like it just fine the way it was because aging it barrels made it taste better. And that’s how we got brandy.
Compare with “to brand” in English or brennen (to burn) in German.
***
The term brandy is a shortening of the archaic English brandewine or brandywine,[23] which was derived from the Dutch word brandewijn, itself derived from gebrande wijn, which literally means “burned wine”[24] and whose cognates include brännvin and brennivín. In Germany, the term Branntwein refers to any distilled spirits, while Weinbrand refers specifically to distilled wine from grapes.
***
Me on the job, a dramatic reenactment: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rN76-Thxiao
or this:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRfx05qKVxg
or this:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BOnc74Vljx0
Whoever ends up talking to aliens first needs to be a hell of a dragoman:
***
A dragoman was an interpreter, translator, and official guide between Turkish-, Arabic-, and Persian-speaking countries and polities of the Middle East and European embassies, consulates, vice-consulates and trading posts. A dragoman had to have a knowledge of Arabic, Persian, Turkish, and European languages.
***
Lovecraft garbled it into Drogman in his pyramid story.
Or this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DVx8L7a3MuE
My Brit neighbor claims “Brandy” never hit in the UK and it was totally new to him (in his 50s). He adores it now; it’s a jam, to be fair.
Tampon Tim sinks to new lows:
***
“We see one of the first things they do is try and restrict the vote,” Walz said of the Trump administration. “This is one of the things, though, that this is going to take power industry to — I don’t know what the answer is on this, but I’m kind of — I’ve been saying this: I think we need a shadow government, so when all these things come up every single day, we’ve got an alternate press conference telling the truth about what things are happening, tell them what’s going on.”
…
In another part of his remarks, Walz admitted to getting dunked on by his 18-year-old son, Gus. “I was having one of those dad talks with him,” Walz said. “I was giving Gus my wisdom on what he had done wrong, you know, because I know these things, right, I’m a dad? And in the middle of it, he gives me the old, ‘Says the guy who got his a** kicked by Donald Trump.’”
***
https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/politics/tim-walz-calls-for-shadow-government-to-counter-trump-admin-son-dunks-on-former-veep-nominee/ar-AA1BRZ8o?ocid=msedgntp&pc=HCTS&cvid=cdfc7bb68fc548299695c20de9a2353f&ei=59
Stop paying attention to that goon! Let him fade away. He will. He’s more useless than tits on a boar.
Only 2 more years…and Walz will be gone.
Thanks America for sending him back
Out of the fry pan and into the salt pan?
Do they have salt in Minnisoda?
Do they have salt in Minnisoda?
Only in passive aggressive form and if below 32 deg
Ohh, yes, they use salt in Minnesoda. Shall I give you a picture of my pickup cab corners or my rear wheel wells?
I mean, we’ve had a deep state and shadow government for a long time already, but it’s nice they’re finally admitting it.
The Deep State Is Kind of Awesome | NYT Opinion
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9P196Fm0lM
mystery video!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UpsQQilmTHM
While I appreciate the teen’s answer, a better one should have been “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
🤡🤡🤡🤡
I do love this book. Thank you for posting it!
🥰🥰🥰
+1
RAF pilots ‘undoubtedly put at risk’ after Trump administration ‘Signalgate’ leak
https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/world/raf-pilots-undoubtedly-put-at-risk-after-trump-administration-signalgate-leak/ar-AA1BSrIV?ocid=msedgntp&pc=HCTS&cvid=5828a93e817b43a6a4240f04bb0f2e57&ei=13
[Kif sigh]
Ill bet the Chinee were listening, now they have all our secret plans!
Zounds!!!!
Anything to get a headline I guess. Since the Atlantic decided to post ‘classified’ (knowing if it were classified info, they’d be in deep shit) messages, we are pretty much left with “lets bomb some shit!” as if it were frat boys deciding who to haze next.
Ominus, accurate and probably one of the bad kitty’s best works: https://boriquagato.substack.com/p/cognitive-breakage
Good morning all.
Morning.
I was woken by a wrong number at 5:11 in the morning.
I am not happy about it.
A missed opportunity to make a new friend.
The call is coming from inside the house!
We did not sound like that would happen
I expected another summer of love last year but it wasn’t to be.
But I agree that the signs seem to be pointing to probably this year instead. Donald and Elon driving them nuts plus reality is starting to crash the “green new deal” party. Booom.
Like so many of the other destruction the left does this Tesla business has the distinct smell of being coordinated yet I see a notable lack of answers or curiosity about who that is.
If we do get names it will be the usual suspects I suspect.
A hearty good morning to the Glibs!
🫡☀️☕️
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2FQO1fj1MJU
🎶🎶
https://redstate.com/rusty-weiss/2025/03/27/ny-dems-latest-move-is-a-blatant-attempt-to-ruin-tesla-solely-because-of-his-association-with-trump-n2187159
Y’all need to fire up those wood chippers. Figuratively, ofc.
Literally losing their minds. It’s both funny and terrifying.
Whatever happened to arbitrary and capricious?
“We Love It!” /progic
Porterhouses on sale this weekend. 😋🥩
I’m making burgers and chicken salad sandwiches (different meals).
Do I get this right….the California Dems are going to fight Trump by doubling down on woke?
Unsurprising.
The Tesla campaign wont be the end of the lunatic violence. It will fail and they will escalate.
This could get really ugly…the dying throes of leftist big government.
The Cali Dems are playing woke politics to their national detriment but it makes sense there.
from the bad kitty article
“it’s about to be a really strange time in america. the zeitgeist has moved and the wokester warlords and DEI dictators have lost their prominence and power.
it’s not coming back.”
i don’t believe this. the left will be back in power after the next election cycle.
morning. almost time to go try and beat the wheel bearing off the Prius.
Probably. They’re still going to break shit until then.
🙄
Among the content warnings for for one of the Alien films “Contains Tobacco Depictions”
I hate how weak these people think the audience is.
First break ending soon. Happy mornin’ to y’all.
There was an automated floor scrubber was making its rounds. Seeing my opponent in the distance, I went into an adjacent lane to avoid a collision. We’re I more experienced and trusted, I wouldn’t have altered my collision course. Make it’s sensors sense danger and get out of *my* way. Not sure if it has that ability, but I assume it’d stop if I got to close.
I encourage fear in our robotic (soon to-be) overlords.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SjQeciaoAwA
HAVE A NICE DAY