Beat to Quarters

by OneNinerKilo

Rating: teen
Tags: Alternate Universe, Adventure
Length: 8290

Scootaloo is press-ganged into the Royal Navy. Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom enlist the help of Pipsqueak, a dashing privateer captain, to get her back!

Scootaloo is press-ganged onto a Royal Navy frigate. Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom enlist the help of Pipsqueak, a dashing privateer captain, to get her back!

Note: Story does contain some gore, and it will continue in future chapters. It is not gratuitous, but it's there, and that's why I marked the story 'Teen'.

Approved by Twilight's Library 9/14/2013

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-04-08 02:27:11 UTC

Press-ganged!

“Scoots! Hey Scootaloo, wake up!”

Apple Bloom’s voice cut through the muzziness in Scootaloo’s mind, causing her to crack an eye and peer up from her current position under the table.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘m fine. Jush sleepy.”

The yellow earth pony rolled her eyes and gestured at the angry barkeep.

“The pub’s closin’, Scootaloo. Ah’m glad you enjoyed your birthday an’ all, but we gotta get back to our room. Sweetie left already, and ya’ know Rarity doesn’t like us comin’ in at all hours o’ the night.”

Scootaloo nodded blearily and wiped the grit from her eyes before getting unsteadily to her hooves. She waved away the other pony’s attempt to support her, and began stumbling towards the door. The barkeep, a massive slab of an earth pony, cleared his throat.

“Right, the tab.” Grumbling, Scootaloo fished in her saddlebag and threw a pouch of bits on the floor. Apple Bloom smiled apologetically and helped her inebriated friend through the door and into the night air. The pair began making their way to their rented apartment above Rarity’s boutique.

The salt air revived Scootaloo a bit, and she swung her head around and surveyed their surroundings. The port of Newcolt rolled up the streets after midnight, and she could already see sailors stumbling down the muddy lanes, trying and failing to keep their hooves as they made the long journey back to their bunks. Marines picked up the few who couldn't, clapping them in irons and carrying them unceremoniously back to their ships.

And the ships! She could see their sails towering over the squat dockside warehouses, looking to all the world like a flock of giant white seabirds had made their home in Horseshoe Bay. Scootaloo felt her friend pulling her gently towards their destination.

“Scoots, we’ll watch the ships tomorrow, okay? Let’s jus’ get home and get you ta’ bed.”

Scootaloo gave a piteous whine and broke away from Apple Bloom’s guiding hooves.

“Imma go look at the ships, AB. Jush for a lil’ bit, okay? I promish I won’t wake the queen on my way back in.” Scootaloo didn’t share Sweetie Belle’s high opinion of her sister, thinking her to be somewhat of an authoritarian landlady. Rarity, in turn, treated Scootaloo with thinly-veiled contempt, often referring to her as a ragamuffin, though only when she thought Scootaloo couldn't hear it.

Apple Bloom sighed and let her friend go completely, turning towards the merchant’s district and the boutique. She knew not to get between Scoots and her silly ideas, especially if she’d had a few pints in her. She addressed Scootaloo over her shoulder.

“Alright, I’ll wait up fer ya. Don’t expect me to come get ya if you get locked up, y’hear?”

Scootaloo waved her off and stumbled towards the quayside. She loved going down to the docks, away from the reek of the city center, watching the ships bob calmly at anchor. Though she’d never told her friends, she’d always dreamed of being a sailor. Living a life of adventure, rather than drudging around making deliveries and picking up orders for Sweetie Belle’s tyrannical sister. She sighed and continued on. Moonlight reflected off the black waters of the bay, bathing the quay in a pale light.

Scootaloo felt a familiar calm come over her as she made her way to the railing and leaned on it, supportive as an old friend. She surveyed Horseshoe Bay, noting the new arrivals. A merchant galleon had come into port yesterday, squat and lolling about on a slack anchor chain. Squinting in the moonlight, she was just able to make out the gold and red flag on the masthead, and gave a soft chuckle. Maneiards, worst sailors on the ocean, hooves down.

“Y’like watchin’ the ships, eh lass?” A voice broke through her reverie, and she whirled to find the source. A white unicorn stallion with a sea-green mane, wearing the blue coat of the Royal Navy. He was flanked by a pair of disinterested marines, their muskets slung over their backs.

“I guess… I come here sometimes,” she said warily. The unicorn sidled up to the rail and joined her.

“I used to do the same thing, lass. Where’re ya comin’ from this late at night?” He eyed her with interest, noting her glassy eyes and disheveled mane. “Comin’ from the pub, are we? The young filly enjoys her rum?”

Even through the haze of the alcohol and despite his friendly demeanor, Scootaloo began to feel vaguely uncomfortable, backing away from the navy stallion. Noticing this, he put up a hoof in a placating gesture.

“I never said there was anything wrong with enjoyin’ a drop of the kill-devil now and then, lass. I was a wild colt in my youth, and dat’s for true. I’m Whitecap, by the way, pleasure to meet you…?”

“Scootaloo,” she replied, taking a deep breath and trying futilely to gain back some sobriety, “It’sh my birthday, that’s why we were out at the pub. Celebratin’.”

Whitecap raised his eyebrows and gave the marines a sidelong glance, which Scootaloo failed to notice.

“Yer birthday is it? Happy birthday, lass!” His horn flared to life, and he produced a tin cup and flask from a pocket of his naval jacket. He poured a generous amount of dark liquid into the cup, offering it to Scootaloo with a smile. “Rum’s good enough for common sailors, sure ‘nuff, but a pretty lass like you should celebrate her birthday with a nip of Hiberneighan whiskey, eh?”

She blushed lightly. Her plain features and mousy purple mane hadn’t often earned her much attention from colts, and here was a navy stallion calling her pretty. Her better judgment had long since been drowned in alcohol, and she accepted the cup with a shy smile.

“Thanks, Whitecap.” He nodded and raised the flask in a toast.

“To the pretty lass who loves the sea.”

Her smile grew wider and she threw back the whiskey, feeling an odd clink against her front teeth. She peered into the cup and saw the bit coin lying against the bottom. She fished it out and looked quizzically at Whitecap.

He was no longer smiling.

“Seems you’ve taken the Queen's bit, eh lass? ‘Tis a great honor, volunteering for the Royal Navy. You’ll certainly be seein’ more o’ those tall ships ya like to gawk at, and from closer as well.”

Scootaloo shook her head vehemently, throwing the bit to the ground.

Her head felt full of peat, and words were taking a long time to get from her mind to her mouth.

“I didn’t volunteer! You tricked me! I don’t want to join the navy!”

Whitecap nodded to the marines, who stepped forward quickly, pinning her small wings to her side and grabbing her forelegs in their fetlocks. He reached down for the bit and placed it back in his pocket.

“Deserting already, seamare? I doubt if your captain will approve much. Marines, place this sailor in irons and take her to the Manticore to await the captain’s punishment,” he winked at Scootaloo, who was wearing an expression of shocked horror, “Happy birthday, lass.”

This can’t be happening. Scootaloo cried and kicked as the marines dragged her towards a moored frigate. She screamed once, loudly, before the larger stallion pushed a dirty cloth into her mouth. She was trying to fight, trying to do anything, but her head felt like it weighed a ton, and the darkness pressed in on her from all sides as she went limp between the marines.

Whitecap watched it all impassively, pulling a pipe from his voluminous coat and lighting it with a bright flash of magic. Once he saw the young mare aboard the Manticore, he turned away from the harbor and began the long walk to the Admiralty office. As he trotted down the muddy lane leading towards downtown, he sang to himself quietly.

“Now let every colt, drink off his full bumper

Now let every colt, drink off his full glass

We'll drink and be jolly and drown melancholy

And here's to the health of each true-hearted lass.”

Kiss the Gunner's Daughter

Pipsqueak was in heaven. He was sitting on a beach in the beautiful Maribbean sun, a native mare in one foreleg, a bottle of rum clasped firmly in the other. He could see his ship, Mad Jenny, bobbing gently at anchor.

What a life.

A loud banging sound jolted him from his reverie, and more importantly, caused him to drop his rum to the sand.

What the…? Is that cannon fire? It almost sounds like knocking… *NO!! Good dream, good dream!***

He woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in his bed. Or, he would have sat bolt upright, had he not been sleeping in an attic apartment with a sloped roof. As it was, he got about six inches off the mattress before his forehead met unyielding Trottingham oak.

Ahh, Celestia dammit, that hurts.

He rolled out of the bed, rubbing his head with one hoof while pulling on his trousers with the other. The knocking continued unabated.

“Wake up, Pip! This is important!” He groaned when he heard the adorable voice crack.

Sweetie Belle. That mare’s gonna be the death of me.

“One second, love! I didn’t think I’d have the pleasure of seeing you this fine… uh,” He threw open the shutter, allowing the blinding light into the room and searing his retinas, “morning!”

After winning the vicious struggle with his trousers, he conceded defeat to the waiting belt and woolen shirt, and trotted over to the door. He peered through the peephole before swinging it wide, revealing a very distraught Sweetie Belle and a shell-shocked Apple Bloom.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, ladies?”

At that, Sweetie Belle began to weep softly into her hooves, and Apple Bloom continued to stare glassy-eyed like some sort of Zebrican voodoo zombie.

Right. Smooth, Pip. He ushered them inside and locked the door behind them.

“Alright, Sweetie Belle, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

And why does Apple Bloom look like she got into Rarity’s opium?

Sweetie Belle sniffled and gazed up at him with watery eyes.

“Scootaloo didn’t come home last night. We went out to the pub to celebrate her eighteenth, you know, and I came home early, Apple Bloom walked her most of the way home…” Apple Bloom lowered her gaze to the floor and bit her lip. Sweetie choked back a sob before continuing.

"Scoots wanted to watch the ships for a while, and she was drunk, you know how she gets... So Apple Bloom just came home, said she'd wait up for her, and..."

Pipsqueak gently placed his hoof on her lips, cutting her off before she could really get going. At any rate, he’d already heard enough. His gut sank.

“You said she was watching the ships? Down at Quayside?”

Sweetie nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. Apple Bloom looked on worldlessly, lost in thought.

Pipsqueak sighed. He’d been afraid of that.

“If she'd been anywhere else, I’d tell you she could handle herself and that she was probably asleep in a doorway somewhere. But since she was by the docks, chances are she’s been impressed.”

Sweetie Belle cocked her head slightly and raised an eyebrow.

“Well the ships have always impressed Scootaloo, but I hardly think that explains why she’s been gone all night,” she replied huffily.

Pipsqueak choked down the urge to jump out the now-open window. This mare.

“Pressed into service, Sweetie Belle. Forcibly enlisted in the Royal Navy. It’s happened to more than one of my crew as well. The Admiralty’s been having trouble filling quotas, what with all this business with Prance.”

“So how do we get her back?”

He chuckled darkly. He’d often asked himself the same question. The truth was, it was near impossible to get recompense at all, much less get the Navy to part with its precious crew. Of course, he didn’t have the heart to tell the fillies.

“I’ll ask around the port and see which ship she may have been taken aboard. If she was tricked into volunteering, we can pay her bounty to the captain.”

This seemed to mollify Sweetie Belle, and even Apple Bloom looked a little more aware. Pip began to pick up his effects from their messy pile on the floor, and managed to get his shirt and belt on with a struggle.

He heard a loud galloping on the stairs and snatched his pistol off the nightstand, leveling it at the open door in one lightning-quick motion.

A small blue-and-grey pegasus skidded around the corner, blanching when he saw the muzzle of a pistol aimed firmly at his chest.

Pip sighed and lowered the gun.

“What is it, Breaker? Did our letters of marque arrive?”

Breaker grinned widely, showing a mouth full of golden teeth.

“Better, skipper. The Navy’s put to sea… we’re at war with Prance!”

***

Scootaloo couldn’t hear the gulls, and that meant something was very wrong. They were ever-present in Newcolt, bold and vocal. She could smell the salt air, which meant she was still on the coast, but she wasn’t home.

She tried to move, but her front hooves were held immobile, fixed with chains to some solid wooden structure in front of and above her. She was also blindfolded.

All in all, not a great way to start a morning.

“H-hello…?”

Her voice was raw and low, and she realized upon using it that she desperately needed a drink. She heard another voice, loud and imperious, off to her left.

“Ah, the prisoner’s awake. Mr. Backstay, please order all hands aft for punishment.”

Scootaloo heard hoofsteps moving closer, and the blindfold was pulled off in one motion. She blinked back tears at the sudden brightness. Gaining back some sight, she squinted at her surroundings.

Looking left, she saw wooden stairs leading up to a balcony of some sort, upon which stood a line of unmoving Royal Marines.

That’s strange, why’s everything made out of wood? And why are there ropes… and cannons? A ship?

She squeezed her eyes shut shook her head fiercely, trying to beat back the fog in her mind. She gasped as the events of last night floated hazily in her vision. The pub. Going down to Quayside. The navy stallion, Whitecap. And then... She shuddered to think of it.

When she warily opened her eyes again, she was looking directly into the eyes of a deep gray unicorn with a black mane. He wore a blue jacket adorned with golden cord, and an ornate black hat.

“Good morning, seamare. You’re actually rather lucky you deserted when you did. Any later and you’d be hanging from the yardarm, not just tied for twelve lashes.”

Scootaloo gaped at the stallion.

“Seamare… I’m not even in the Navy! You kidnapped me!”

He frowned at her.

“I have the Admiralty’s full assurance that you volunteered. In fact, the Impressment Officer who recruited you is a dear personal friend of mine,” he looked off at something behind her, “Eighteen lashes, then, for violation of Article 16, simple desertion. Get another bosun to lay on the next six.”

A gruff voice sounded from behind Scootaloo, “Aye, Cap’n Shoals.”

The captain… He’s gotta be reasonable. She gave him a pleading look.

“Wait, sir, this is obviously a misunderstanding. I’m not even a sailor. I’ve never been on a ship before! You definitely don’t want me on your crew.”

The captain’s face hardened, and he leaned in close to her. She could smell tobacco and rum on his breath as he whispered.

“You’re right, Miss Scootaloo, I don’t want you on my crew. A landsmare who doesn’t know the difference between broad reach and a broadsword. But we are at war, and you’re what I’ve got.”

He stepped back and motioned again to the bosun.

“Do your duty, Mr. Backstay, or you'll take her place. A good hard drubbing, if you please.”

Scootaloo heard a whistling noise, and the exposed area between her wings exploded into pain. She screamed and wrenched at the chains on her forelegs. The sensitive nerves that controlled her flight feathers were exploding in a paroxysm of agony. Tears streamed down her face as she gasped and bit the inside of her cheek as hard as she could. She tasted coppery blood.

Dear Celestia please make this stop make this end mercy mercy...

“One.”

She heard the infernal whistling again, and the second blow landed high and left, sweeping across her wing and tearing out a pinfeather. Blood began to trickle freely from the wounds in her back as she writhed. The cries passing her lips came from deep in her chest, low animal sounds that twisted into piteous moans.

Two.

"Please no more... please..."

The third blow came from the right, slashing diagonally across the path of the first, and tearing a ragged fissure through the already damaged flesh. Gore dripped onto the wooden deck, audible over the dead silence of the officers and crew. Scootaloo's entire world had been reduced to the wooden grate in front of her, and she saw black spots on the edge of her vision. She hung her head and retched, earning a short reprieve and a muttered curse from the captain as he stepped back in haste. She heard his haughty voice ring out clearly through the cotton in her thoughts.

"With more force, Mr. Backstay. I don't believe the lesson has fully sunk in."

Scootaloo let her tenuous grasp on consciousness slip through her hooves, and she sagged against the chains before the fourth blow fell, out cold and utterly defeated.

Stowaways

Pipsqueak hurried towards the docks, bumping and jostling his way through the busy streets. Choruses of annoyed grumbling followed him as he pushed ponies aside. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only thing following him.

“Wait just one dang minute, Pip!” The two fillies were hot on his hooves. He responded without turning.

“I have to get my ship outfitted and put to sail. I’ve wasted enough time arguing with you.”

Sweetie Belle appeared at his side and placed a forehoof on his shoulder beseechingly.

“She’s our friend, Pip. I thought you were too.”

He shrugged off her hoof and rounded on her.

“What do you want me to do, Sweetie Belle? The ship she’s on is gone, and if I don’t make sail soon, we likely won’t take a prize.”

Apple Bloom tried to interject, but he cut her off with a chopping motion of his hoof.

“I’m not finished. If we don’t take a prize, I won’t be able to pay my crew, and I could very well lose my ship. If you haven’t noticed, I don’t have very much tying me to shore. A rathole of a flat that I got cheap because it’s next door to a tannery. If I lose the Jenny, I’ll have nothing.”

Apple Bloom had apparently decided he was finished by this point, because she jumped in.

“Why can’t we come with you?”

Pip gave a mirthless laugh.

“Why, because we’re just going to chance upon the ship she’s on in the middle of the open ocean? Are we going to force every navy vessel we spot to heave to so we can inspect them? And you two don’t know the first thing about sailing, even if I was considering taking you…”

Both fillies looked up at him with hopeful eyes. He snorted. Better end this now, Pip, before you do something you’d really regret.

“...Which I’m not! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a voyage to prepare for!”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and left the two fillies standing in the crowded street.

***

The deck rocked slightly under Pip’s hooves as Mad Jenny plowed through the choppy waters of the Equestrian Channel. He took a deep breath of the pungent salt air and sighed happily. Pip was born with a deep love of the sea, a rare case of hydrophilia that no one could diagnose and he never wanted to be cured of. It'd been nearly half a day since he set sail from Newcolt, and his spirits rose with every mile of ocean behind him.

“Put us on a sou’westerly tack, Breaker,” He said over his shoulder to the helmscolt, “I want to make the Strait of Zebraltar before the navy lads do.”

Breaker spun the wheel with practiced ease, and the ship picked up speed, urged onwards by the late summer winds. Pipsqueak ran his right forehoof along the ship’s railing and gave a sigh as he gazed out over the ship’s frothy wake.

Maybe I was too harsh with them, he thought to himself. Maybe they were right.

“Skipper?”

A voice interrupted his reverie, and Pip turned to find Breaker giving him a surprisingly sympathetic look.

“Thinking about those lassies you left on shore?”

For a second, Pip was tempted to tell the helmscolt of his doubts, get it off his chest and be done with it. Just as quickly, he realized it was impossible. As captain, he couldn’t be seen to second-guess any decision he’d made, no matter what. He gritted his teeth and gave the railing a hard swat with his forehoof.

“No, Breaker, I’m thinking about the juicy prizes waiting for us in the strait.” He flashed Breaker a quick grin, which the pegasus returned, showing off his garish gold teeth. They were interrupted by a cry from the hold.

“Oi, skipper! We caught Scratch breakin’ into the rum stores again!”

Pip rolled his eyes and made his way down to the stairs leading to the hold. The narrow wooden passageway was filled with crew members, each trying to jostle for a better view.

“Gang way! Clear off, I need to get through!” With much cursing and several nasty shoves, he was able to get through the crowd and to the stairway.

Upon entering the hold, he was greeted with a very unusual sight. Scratch was standing next to a barrel nearly as tall as she was. She winked her one good eye at him, and the skin around the purple eyepatch she wore over the other wrinkled in amusement as she gave him a lopsided grin. A couple members of the gun crew were standing watch over her, likely the ones who’d caught her in the act.

And then there was the barrel itself. The bung had been knocked out, but there was no telltale puddle of liquid. Nearing the monstrous cask, he could hear a shuffling noise from inside it, as if a rat had gotten trapped and was scurrying around frantically. He raised an eyebrow at Scratch, who merely shrugged.

He drew his cutlass and began to pry at the lid, eventually being rewarded with a satisfying pop and a clear view inside.

His jaw dropped open and his cutlass clattered to the deck.

Two fillies sheepishly rose from their hiding place.

A moment of heavy silence came over the hold.

“Hi, Pip!” said Sweetie Belle brightly.

***

Scootaloo cursed under her breath as she swabbed the wooden deck, each motion sending a sharp pain through her back and wings. The flogging had continued when she came to, and she’d nearly passed out again before it was over. The ship’s surgeon had cleaned her wounds and dressed them as best he could, but the first day of working on the warship had been a hellish experience.

So much information to cram into her head. As a pegasus, she’d been assigned to the tops, though she wouldn't be flying more than a few feet at a time until her wings healed. She’d learned to climb the ratlines between the masts and adjust the sails’ trim. So many sails! Top sails, main tops, fore tops, topgallants, staysails, jibs. Her head spun just thinking about it. Thankfully, she’d kept her head down and learned to move ‘sharpish, lass’ and avoided any further punishment from the bosun.

Her thoughts wandered back to Newcolt and her friends.

They’re probably frantic right now. I’d imagine Rarity’s putting on a great act of consoling Sweetie Belle. And Apple Bloom… Shoulda listened to her. Stupid Scootaloo and your stupid dreams.

She scrubbed the deck with a fury, as if she could wash away the hatred she felt for this ship, the captain, and the navy. And herself.

“Scootaloo?”

A voice broke through her internal turmoil, and she looked up in alarm. A grey earth pony mare with a lieutenant’s jacket and bicorne stood over her. Her soft purple eyes held Scootaloo’s gaze in their thrall, and Scootaloo stammered, utterly unable to speak.

“Scootaloo? Did you hear me? Your watch was over ten minutes ago, when the ship’s bell rang.”

Scootaloo clambered to her hooves, touching her forehoof to her head in a clumsy salute.

“T-thank you, ma’am.”

The mare nodded and shocked her by extending a forehoof, which Scootaloo shook warily.

“Lieutenant Octavia. I’m sorry to see you aboard under such circumstances, but in these times every mare must do her duty. As I said, your watch is over for the evening. There’s a small gathering on the foredeck, if you wish to attend. Bit of a ship’s tradition.”

Scootaloo nodded, mute, and followed Octavia down the length of the ship to where a large portion of the crew had assembled.

What a strange mare… Nobility, without a doubt. I could tell that posh Canterlot accent anywhere. She acts kind though, not like an officer at all. And what’s her cutie mark about? A musical note?

When they reached the crowd, Octavia directed her to take a seat and beckoned her aide. He carried a wooden box about as long as his foreleg, which he presented to her before retreating back into the crowd. From the box, Octavia retrieved a wooden instrument.

A violin. Blech. Definitely nobility.

Octavia hesitated for a split second, and then drew her bow slowly over the strings. Mournful notes floated across the deck, and the assembled crew sat stock still. She closed her eyes and swayed slightly from side to side, lost in the music.

Scootaloo’s doubt was gone in an instant. The pain from her wounds faded, and she found herself daydreaming of home. She was no longer a prisoner aboard a ship of war, but a filly again, laughing and playing with her friends in the streets of Newcolt, mud-wrestling with Apple Bloom, and driving Rarity half-crazy with her antics. She realized she had tears running down her face, but no longer cared. Indeed, if she had seen the crewmares beside her through the blur, she would have noticed she was not alone.

Scootaloo had heard music before, good music, even great music. She’d never heard anything like this. Octavia seemed to pour her very soul into the instrument, creating emotions from thin air while her long black mane and navy jacket fluttered in the stiff breeze.

The last strains of music faded away and Octavia gave a slight bow. The crew was silent, still lost in the sea of emotions she had taken them to. A cry from one of the mares in the tops snapped them back to the present.

“Sail ho, starboard!”

Octavia hastily set down the violin and assumed a formal demeanor, trotting quickly to the starboard rail. She fished a spyglass from her greatcoat and snapped it open with a quiet snick. Scanning the horizon, she fixed on a white speck in the distance and squinted.

“Scootaloo!”

From her position in the crowd of sailors, Scootaloo quickly jumped to attention.

“Yes, ma’am?”

Octavia beckoned her over to the rail and handed her the spyglass.

“Tell me if you can see the ensign flying on her mast.”

Scootaloo squinted at the grainy image in the spyglass. The foresails of the vessel were clearing the horizon. As she watched, the ship changed course to match that of the Manticore, and the flag flying from the top of her mainmast was easily recognizable as it streamed behind her.

A tricolor.

Blue, white and red.

Scootaloo drew in a quick breath, and snapped the spyglass shut. She looked up at Octavia and grimaced.

“She’s Prench."

Octavia nodded slowly. Her face hardened, and her eyes seemed to blaze with an inner fire. She straightened her bicorne hat before giving a yell that would put a veteran sergeant to shame.

“Beat to quarters!”

No Quarter Given, None Expected

Neither captain had expected the gale. It had come out of the northwest, lashing both ships with shrieking winds and raindrops the size of musket balls. The Prench ship was pressing Manticore hard, and was now close enough for every sailor to make out the smaller flag on its jackstaff. Scootaloo shivered at the sight of it, standing out against the grey sky like a drop of blood. A completely red flag, bearing no insignia. She remembered Octavia's grim statement to her, just before she was called to the gundeck.

That flag, miss Scootaloo, means that they'll not take prisoners. No quarter is to be given, and none is expected.

Scootaloo shivered violently and wiped her wet mane from her eyes.

Whooooom!

She felt the shock as a cannonball sliced through the rigging, mere feet from her and inches from the spar she was standing on. They were now within range of the enemy's bowchasers.

"Hard to starboard and run out the guns! We'll rake her across the bow!"

She heard the captain's magically amplified voice clearly over the howl of the winds, and felt the ship begin to turn through the heavy seas, sluggishly, due to the lack of canvas. Shoals had ordered them to reef nearly all her sails when the gale hit. The Prench ship, foolishly, had not, and had lost her topmasts in a strong gust. Looking back through the rigging, Scootaloo could see the foe attempting to match Manticore's turn, but not quite quickly enough.

"Fire!"

Manticore shivered and heaved violently as her starboard cannons roared at once. Scootaloo was nearly knocked from her perch, and windmilled her wings wildly in attempt to regain her balance. She managed to catch herself on a ratline and turned to peer through the smoke, trying to survey the damage to the enemy vessel.

As the haze blew away, she realized the captain's error. He'd hit the Prench ship, and the shot had done grievous damage, if the bloodsoaked decks were any indication. What he had also done, however, was lock the Manticore in irons, directly facing the hellacious wind. Their foe was still bearing down on them, and they had nowhere to go.

They're going to ram us.

Shoals had apparently realized this as well, and she heard him cursing at the helmscolt to come about. This was an impossible task; with no wind in the sails, the ship simply would not turn, regardless of the rudder.

They could only watch as the Prench ship bore down on them.

Celestia, they're gonna cut us in half...

At the last moment, however, their foe veered off to starboard, slipping deftly alongside them. A ripping broadside sent a hail of grapeshot whistling across the Manticore's deck. As soon as they fired, the Prench deck crew rose from behind the rail and began throwing ropes across to the Equestrian ship. Some throwers were hit by the marines in the rigging, but many found their mark and the iron grapnels were seated with sharp tugs.

"All crew... to the deck to... repel boarders!"

Scootaloo could see Shoals standing on the quarterdeck, clutching his left shoulder and holding a cutlass aloft with his flickering aura. He staggered and slumped to the deck with a groan. The helmscolt and deck crew were strewn about in piles, cut down by the lead hail. She hurried to the mast and slid down a stay line, hitting the deck at a trot, scurrying to the captain's side. She grabbed up an axe from a fallen marine, and held it awkwardly, scanning the deck through the haze. She could no longer hear anything above the wind and staccato tattoo of the rain.

She shivered again and sniffed back tears.

A figure appeared out of the haze amidships. He wore a blue-trimmed white jacket and a tricolor cockade decorated his hat.

Spotting her, he took aim with his musket. She winced and closed her eyes, waiting for the report.

All she heard was a click.

Her eyes flew open. The Prench marine's soaked powder had failed to ignite. He cursed and drew his saber. Beckoning to yet more marines behind him, he took one step forward.

"For the Queen!"

Octavia burst from the hatch to belowdecks, discharging a pistol with either hoof before throwing them aside and drawing her rapier. The rest of the gundeck crew followed suit, firing with their dry charges before rushing at the boarders with drawn steel. The Prench, unable to fire their own weapons, charged forward with no less ferocity.

Scootaloo found herself rushing into the fray, swinging her axe like she was chopping wood. The sights and sounds of the melee overwhelmed her senses, and she pushed them to the back of her mind. To her, every white uniform was just wood to be split, and she swung her weapon with reckless abandon. The fight became her whole world. Her muscles burned and screamed in protest, and she struggled to keep her weapon up and swinging. Every breath came as a ragged gasp, rainwater and sweat running down her face in rivulets.

After a few minutes of back-and-forth, the battle had reached the mast, where the outnumbered Equestrian sailors were putting up a tremendous fight against the Prench boarding party. Scootaloo found herself fighting next to Octavia, who she nearly didn't recognize. The lieutenant was spattered with gore from head to hooves, the only recognizable features being her ever-present bicorne hat and her lavender eyes. She ran through a marine who was attempting to bayonet her, twisting the rapier in his gut before placing her other hoof on his shoulder and wrenching it from his body. He fell to the deck with a wet thud. She gave Scootaloo a clap on her shoulder.

"Miss Scootaloo, there you are! I have an urgent request..."

She was interrupted by yet another Prench stallion, and she parried his blows until an Equestrian sailor got behind him and hit him hard with a belaying pin. She returned her gaze to Scootaloo as he fell.

"As I was saying. The cannons on the gundeck are loaded and run out. We'll hold them here, you get belowdecks and fire. Just run down the line of guns, pulling the cords on the breech. It's simple. Now, go!"

Octavia waved her off with a hoof and continued her swordplay as Scootaloo slipped and staggered her way back to the hatch. The rough seas and soaked deck conspired against her, but she finally made it, wrenching open the hatch and half-falling down the stairs to the gundeck.

She surveyed the room, long lines of stubby cannon on either side, punctuated by the masts boring down at intervals. She made her way to the starboard gunports, peering out at the Prench frigate, no more than a few yards away. Steeling herself, she took the firing cord in her teeth and stepped back, wrenching with her neck.

The gun jumped backwards with a massive report, and she heard the crash of timbers from the other ship.

No time to think about it, Scoots, gotta get the rest.

She hurried down the line, tugging on each cord, wincing at each blast, until she'd fired all sixteen. With her mission complete, she galloped back across the deck, charging up the stairs and out the hatch into the driving rain.

Her jaw dropped.

The Prench ship had apparently cut away their lines when she started firing, and was now listing crazily, whitecaps crashing over her deck and sweeping her crew into the black water. Scootaloo blinked back tears at the sight of them flailing madly and turned away, walking back to the mast. Octavia and the gundeck crew had the remnants of the boarding party at swordpoint. One of the Prench marines was weeping and gibbering in Prench, and Octavia slapped him with the flat of her sword.

"Be silent!"

She turned to Scootaloo, and gave her a weary smile.

"Very well done. You likely saved the Manticore with your actions. You may go below and sleep for as long as you need, on my authority."

As Octavia turned back to the rest of the crew, Scootaloo piped up.

"What are you going to do with them? The boarding party."

Octavia looked back over her shoulder and her face hardened.

"They'll be locked in the bilge until I can think of something. They requested no quarter, so that's more than they deserve."

Scootaloo nodded and carefully picked her way across debris-strewn and blood soaked deck. She staggered down the stairs to the gundeck, and fell forward into the first hammock she came across. She was asleep before she could swing her hind legs in.

The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves

Pipsqueak’s cabin on the Jenny was cramped at the best of times. She was a brig, after all, and out of necessity, little space was spared to comfort. Therefore, with Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, and an exceptionally angry privateer captain all currently residing in it, the room felt downright claustrophobic.

Pip tapped his hooves idly under his desk, staring at the fillies with a volatile mixture of impotent rage and more than a little pride. It wasn’t every day, after all, that somepony could infiltrate his ship so completely, and avoid detection so thoroughly.

I’d like to think a bit of my derring-do rubbed off on them.

“It’s not fair, Pip. You can’t take us back after all this, you just can’t!”

Sweetie Belle’s voice broke into his thoughts, which quickly changed his mood from quietly impressed to loudly angry once more.

“You’ve hit the bloody nail on the head there, Sweetie! I can’t afford to take you back to Newcolt. Every hour I delay means less chance of taking a prize, which as this scrap of paper clearly states,” he motioned to the letter of marque on his desk, the Royal seal glittering in the light, “is my one and only source of income. Your thoughtless action could very well ruin me.”

Apple Bloom fixed him with a hard glare.

“We didn’t hide in a darned barrel for a day jus’ so you could take us back to Newcolt. We’re joinin’ yer crew, and that’s that.”

Sweetie Belle blanched at her friend’s declaration, but sighed and did her best to give Pip the same defiant gaze.

Pipsqueak was somewhat surprised by their determination. He knew better than any pony alive the trials of a life at sea, and he knew that no matter how bad they thought they wanted to join his crew, they were not truly prepared for it. He sighed and tried once more to reason with the stubborn fillies.

“Girls, I know you think you’re doing the right thing by going after Scootaloo, but you need to realize something. If you join my crew, you’re resigning yourself to at least several months under sail. More likely a year. Give up this foolishness and I’ll take you back to Newcolt, regardless of how costly it may be. Scootaloo didn’t have a choice, but you do.”

Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle gave each other a sidelong glance, and it seemed as though a silent conversation occurred between them. Apple Bloom raised her eyebrow, and Sweetie Belle set her jaw and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. They turned back to desk, and Apple Bloom took a step forward.

“We’re not going back, so you might as well find a place fer us on yer crew.”

Pip held their gaze for a long moment, then sighed and shrugged.

“Fair enough, though I think you’ll come to regret your decision. Sweetie Belle, report to the foredeck and find Scratch. She’s the one with the eyepatch who tried to drink your hiding place earlier. She’ll be teaching you about the ship’s weapons and one of our rather… interesting devices. Apple Bloom, you’ll be under the tutelage of Wave Breaker. You’ll find him on the maindeck, by the cannons.

“Aye, aye, captain,” said Apple Bloom with a mock salute, and both girls made to leave the cabin. Sweetie Belle hesitated for a moment before turning back to Pip, her cheeks reddening.

“Uh, Pip, one question…”

“Yes?”

Sweetie Belle shuffled in place and idly drew circles on the deck with her hoof before replying.

“Umm… Where’s the foredeck?”

***

“See those cannons amidships?” Scratch motioned with a sweep of her foreleg to the stubby black guns poking out at intervals on the deck. Apple Bloom was attempting to wrestle a cannonball into the nearest one under the watchful gaze of Wave Breaker. Sweetie Belle stifled a giggle and turned her attention back to Scratch, who continued the lesson.

“They’re five pounders.  Nothing to sneeze at, I guess, but they’re popguns compared to the long twelves of any navy ship or galleon. This, though…” She motioned to the strange bronze contraption on the foredeck. “This is how the Jenny punches above her weight in a brawl.”

She ran her hoof along the barrel of the device, and rapped on the drum-shaped object affixed to the rear.

“It’s called the Buckle Automatic Spinning-cylinder Smoothbore cannon. Named after its inventor, a watchmaker named Buckle, and way too buckin’ long, so I just call it a bass cannon. Anyway, he figured that if you put a bunch of loaded cannon breeches together, you could rotate ‘em with clockwork, and fire as fast as you could cock the hammer.”

Scratch swung the gun around so it faced the horizon, and pantomimed fanning her hoof rapidly over the lock of the weapon.

“An earth pony can fire this thing pretty fast, but reloading it’s a pain with hooves. Me and you on the other hand…”

She fired up her horn, popping the drum out sideways and inserting a new one from the crate next to the weapon in mere seconds. She gave Sweetie Belle a wicked grin.

“Wanna try it out?”

***

Scootaloo stood at the rail of the Manticore, gazing into the dark Neightlantic. She ran her hoof over the scarred wood before lifting a hoof to her face, examining it closely. The stains had disappeared with the first washing, freezing seawater chilling her to the bone, running off her in rivulets of brown. She’d kept scrubbing long after the water ran clear, long after her comrades were finished. Every time a breeze tickled her coat, she felt the warm spray of gore, the terrible need to go wash. She wasn’t clean. She could still feel it, still smell it, still taste it. Blood wormed its way into her nostrils while she slept, crawling down her throat and waking her, hacking and vomiting onto the wooden deck. She didn’t think she’d ever get clean.

The Manticore was clean, though. What crew that was left, as well as the Prench prisoners under careful supervision, had scrubbed the gore from the decks, a process that had taken the better part of two days. Octavia had overseen the funerals. An endless parade of sailors and Marines, sewn into sailcloth and weighed down with cannonballs. Prench and Equestrian alike, one after the other. White splashes in a black sea, and then they were gone.

“Scootaloo?”

Octavia’s voice came from behind her, and she turned slowly from the rail, raising her forehoof to her brow automatically. Octavia tipped her hat in response, and Scootaloo dropped the halfhearted salute.

The older mare looked exhausted. Dark circles rimmed her lilac eyes. With the death of Captain Shoals, she’d assumed command of the vessel, and Scootaloo hadn’t seen her sleep since the battle. When she spoke, her voice was soft, but still held the iron of command that Scootaloo had come to expect from the lieutenant.

“Miss Scootaloo, I’ll not mince words with you. Our situation is dire. Although we were victorious against the Prench, our deck crew suffered grievously. The captain, the ship’s master, several young midshipmares…”

Octavia drew in a ragged breath, steadying herself before she continued.

“In order to get back to Equestria safely, I need to make some decisions that will not be popular with the remaining crew. I need officers I can trust standing beside me. Celestia knows, this is not proper naval procedure, but I’m promoting you to midshipmare. You’ll be in command of the new deck crew.”

Scootaloo tried to protest.

“But, I don’t know how to be an officer! I’ve only been on the ship a week!”

“Yet you rushed to defend the captain when no one else did. A captain, I might add, who’d had you flogged not two days before. You saved the ship, Scootaloo. You have the makings of a fine sailor in you. I see it, even if you don’t.”

Scootaloo gulped and tried to make sense of the emotions roiling in her gut. She wanted to be angry, to scream at Octavia, ‘No, I didn’t even want to be here! I didn’t want to kill for you!’ She wanted to rage, to throw a tantrum and petulantly refuse. But another part of her wanted to accept. Truth be told, she was proud. She had always wanted to be a sailor. And now a Royal Navy lieutenant was telling her, Scootaloo, that she believed in her. She drew herself up to full height before giving Octavia another salute, this one parade-ground crisp.

“I’ll do it.”

Octavia gave a soft chuckle and drew a white strip of cloth from her navy greatcoat. Leaning down, she tied it quickly around Scootaloo’s neck, in a rough approximation of a midshipmare’s cravat.

“That’ll have to do until you get a proper uniform. Now, I’ve assembled what’s left of the deck crew on the aftcastle. I’ll need you to relay your new position, as well as one of the rather unpopular orders I mentioned. You’ll need to be firm with them, impress upon them how important it is to our safe return.”

The new captain gave the even newer midshipmare a wink and a clap on the shoulder. Hopefully the crew would take it well.

***

As soon as the words left her mouth, Scootaloo knew it wouldn’t go well. The incredulity of the sailors on the aftcastle had soon given way to anger, then to pure frothing rage when Scootaloo had told her of Octavia’s plan. Her attempt to regain calm was lost in the sea of angry shouts.

“Ain’t no feckin way she ordered that!”

“Who are you ta’ be bossin’ us around like the bloody queen, new tar?”

“Oi, ‘ow do we even know yer tellin’ the truth?”

The owner of the last voice, a well-muscled brown earth pony with a fresh bandage wrapped around his head, advanced on her, slowly pulling a dirk from his belt. Scootaloo backed away from the enraged crewman, tripping in her haste and landing heavily on her haunches. The stallion loomed over her, filling her vision and slowly bringing the dirk down to the cravat around her neck. He slipped it between the fabric and her throat, and she felt the cold metal.

"Maybe you'll be a bit more honest wiv'out this rag 'round yer neck, eh?

Click-click.

The stallion froze, and looked up to see Octavia standing at the top of the stairway to the aftcastle, a cocked pistol in her hoof and leveled at his head. Two scarlet-coated marines flanked her, muskets at the ready. Octavia’s voice was ice.

“Drop the knife, or you’ll not have a chance to hang.”

As soon as the blade clattered to the deck, Scootaloo quickly retreated to the safety of the stairs. Octavia regarded the men with a look most would reserve for particularly foul chamber-pots.

“I’d hoped, as sailors of the Royal Navy, you’d have enough discipline to follow the orders of an officer, no matter how new she was or how much you disagreed with said orders. Obviously I was mistaken, so I shall tell you myself, and by force. Yes, young Scootaloo is indeed a midshipmare. I promoted her myself, as is my right as captain of a vessel under Royal decree…”

A sailor tried to speak up, and Octavia silenced him with a fiery glare.

“Furthermore, the order she attempted to give you was mine, again as captain of this ship. The Prench prisoners will be impressed into Royal service until such time as we reach Newcolt. They will supplement our deck crew, under close watch, so we may continue our duties as a frigate of the Royal Navy. Mister Backstay!”

The bosun made his way out of the tangle of sailors and presented himself before Octavia.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She motioned to the now-disarmed sailor.

“Tradewind will be given thirty lashes for disrespecting a superior officer. I expect this punishment to be carried out faithfully and immediately. Do you understand?”

Backstay swallowed hard before responding.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll see it done.”

Octavia gave the bosun a curt nod and tucked her pistol into her belt. The marines took up positions on either side of Tradewind and led him down to the quarterdeck, with Backstay following behind. Octavia gave the crew one final, scathing look.

“Carry on. I expect every pony to do their duty.”

The crack of a lash drifted up from the quarterdeck, followed shortly by an agonized cry, and the crew hurried to their stations.