Bart and the rest of the rugby boys sat gathered in the cargo hold. It was the morning after and however they may have appeared, it certainly wasn’t athletic. They were a subdued, seriously beat up and hung over group of young men with heads down, black eyes and sporting a few bandages as trophies of their great battle with the Spartans of the Ictinus. When Stanley and Irish came through the hatch and down the gangway they paused as they saw the state of Princeton’s finest, inspiring Irish to sit down easily on the gangway step, smile and offer up a lyric.

      “To New Guinea there came a group of young lads full of vinegar, guts and guile. Then came some foul Greeks, a good time for ta seek, who absconded… in disgrace… and denial.”

      The hung over war torn group slowly raised their heads.  From one came a chuckle, then another, and another until they all rose and burst into victorious laughter, forgetting their painful state altogether.  Stanley and Irish descended the rest of the gangway joining the boys who began offering Irish compliments and congratulations on his poignant half-ass poetry then began recounting their valorous achievements against the Greeks in the battle of the New Guinea Do Drop In.  As they did, Stanley pulled down a stowed crowbar and approached a stack of wooden crates. He jammed the crowbar in the nearest, ripped open the top, then reached in and withdrew a brand new Thompson machine gun.

      Upon seeing this the conversation among the group quickly subsided and they all stared at Stanley’s marvel of modern technology. He handed the weapon to Chrisfield who accidentally pointed it at Irish’s head.  Irish calmly and carefully moved it away with a single finger. Ripping open another crate, Stanley brought out an elephant gun and handed it to one of the others. He then brought out a bazooka and of course handed it to Big Tiny. Big Tiny smiled and inspected the weapon with the joy of a young boy who just received his first bicycle.

      “We’ve also got Winchester repeater rifles, forty-fives, dynamite and… oh yeah, a flamethrower,” smiled Stanley. “And there’s plenty of ammo for all.”

     Bart stared, surprised, and mouthed to himself, “A flame thrower?”

      “Tools of the trade, gentlemen,” continued Stanley. “Courtesy of grandfather Wellington. Just in case.”

      They all moved in around the crates and began withdrawing and inspecting the weapons.

      “Our resident poet, Irish here,” continued Stanley.  “Formerly of the Irish Republican… Well, lets just say he’s talented.”

      They all laughed and Irish saluted.

      “Well, Irish here is going to educate us on the finer points of these… impressive hunting utensils. And I expect, as in all things, you Princeton pirates will be masters before we reach our destination.”

      As they poured over the crates, laughter and low discussion commenced. Chrisfield, while speaking to Big Tiny, once again allowed the serious end of the Thompson to wonder and point at Irish’s head. Irish carefully took possession of the weapon and placed it back in the crate. Suddenly the loud roar of an engine was heard above decks then faded as quickly as it had come causing them to exchange puzzled looks. Then the engine noise returned, this time sounding closer, stronger and then it again faded. Stanley quickly started up the gangway and made his way topside followed by Bart and the others. As the group emerged into the light their attention was quickly drawn to the sky and the thunderous noisy engine of a biplane, a classic old Jennie, diving dead straight for the ship, sure to strike its mass of rigging. The Jennie banked and veered off, missing the ship by an uncomfortably short distance then rose, barrel rolled, and headed again for the Crimson Glory.

      All eyes of the ship’s company were on the sky as they scrambled about, not knowing what to expect and not sure if they should seek refuge from the erratic aircraft. Now it flew just above the waves coming closer, closer, then quickly climbed to just barely miss the top of the mainmast. It banked, circled, returned, rolled and rocked its wings, affording the first good sight of its pilot with a leather cap, goggles and white silk scarf. The pilot offered up a salute and a broad smile then suddenly the engine spit and sputtered and the pilot’s smile quickly transformed to an expression of serious concern.

      The men on the deck watched as the old Jennie climbed and disappeared into the clouds. They watched and heard the engine cough, sputter then die altogether. All grew silent save for the waves striking the ship’s hull and the wind in her sails. The silence lingered while all the ship’s company watched the sky.

      “There! There it is!” shouted a crewman.

      Like a silent eagle, the plane emerged from the clouds, seemingly under the control of its pilot until it began to bank, roll, spin and eventually dive, dive, dive, headlong into the sea. The Jennie’s wings were torn away violently upon impact with the waves and the fuselage sank almost immediately, its tail fin saluting a final farewell. The ship’s company looked on in silence.

      “Do we lower a boat, Captain?” asked the First Mate.

      Captain Buckmaster looked to the area of the plane’s demise where he saw only a few floating remnants of the wings and sadly shook his head.

      “No need. There’s little we can do for that poor unfortunate bastard,” he returned.

      Above the ship, unknown to those watching the final pieces of the plane floating about and being swallowed by the sea, a parachute drifted quietly down through the clouds and as those on deck turned away commenting on the cruel death they had just witnessed, a distant voice called out.

      “Hey. Hey down there.”

      None on board heard the cries.

      “Hello! Helloooo there!”

      Still no one on board the Crimson Glory heard.

      “AHOY THERE DAMNIT!”

      Then all eyes rose to the voice in the sky where they saw the high-booted, leather clad pilot descending beneath a large old and yellowed silk parachute. Descending not like some well controlled military man or show diver but just plain dropping, fast and furious, and nearly out of control. Just the same the pilot smiled and waved then realizing imminent danger, started to desperately tug at the lines of the parachute.

      “Oh shit!” expressed the pilot.

      A line snapped loose and the chute started to tear, resulting in a spiraling not so well controlled descent which evolved into a fully out of control spastic experience.

      “Oh shit!” repeated the pilot, plunging into the maze of the ship’s rigging.

      “Oh shit!”

      The parachute caught in the rigging, jerking its passenger to a halt high above the deck. As it stretched and settled, the  pilot  looked  around  with a smile of relief then suddenly the chute ripped again, gave way and the pilot fell, sliding down the mainsail, bouncing off the mast into a double gainer toward certain death when fortunately the parachute and lines snagged again on some rigging, tossing the pilot around like a yo yo in the hands of a retard.  Swaying back and forth in the wind from the roll of the ship, the pilot pulled away an obscuring white scarf and raised the goggles revealing, except for the eyes, a face blackened by oil and smoke. All the ships company of the Crimson Glory stared.

      “Well, don’t just stand there. Get me outa’ this bloody thing!” demanded the pilot.

      But, no one moved to help because to their total amazement they realized the pilot… was a woman. Then finally.

      “Lend a hand there, men,” ordered Captain Buckmaster. “I’ll not have it said, Captain Horatio Buckmaster ever let a man… um, pilot, hang from the yardarm of any ship.”

      The pilot grew a smile but again the smile was quickly lost when above her the old silk parachute ripped, the lines gave way, and down she fell.  Bart, with little time to react, simply stretched out his arms to catch her. He missed and she landed heavily on her ass on a large pile of heavy rope where he quickly moved to her aid.

      “Are you alright?”

      She groaned, sat up painfully, and stared at Bart.

      “You’re kidding, right mate?”

      He helped her up and she inspected her body for broken parts as the men of the ship gathered around, gaping.

      Stanley made his way through the crowd to emerge in front of Bart and the pilot who, removing her gloves and continuing to inspect her body, was now, in an obvious Australian accent, expressing her displeasure with the old Jennie biplane.

      “Goddamn piece of shit airplane. Gone. All my money, gone. My clothes, gone. Rusty, crab-ridden piece of kangaroo shit. Just wait till I find that son of a bitch who sold…”

      She paused when she glanced up to find Stanley and wouldn’t you know it, she heard bells, the ship’s bell that is as it sounded the watch. Seeing Stanley she suddenly remembered her gender and self-consciously attempted to wipe the oil from her face with her hand then extended it to Stanley.

      “Kincade. Roberta Kincade,” she smiled. “They call me Bobbie.”

      Stanley took her hand, not noticing the gunk from her face he’d contracted in the process.

      “Wellington. Stanley Wellington,” he returned.

      Bart stepped up and extended his hand as well.

      “Haile,” he said. “Bart Haile.”

      Still focused on Stanley she was oblivious of his gesture. The Red Baron had shot Bart down again.

      A short time later Stanley and the Captain entered the crew’s mess to find their newly arrived pilot, Bobbie, sitting at a table, still black faced and the center of attraction, surrounded by the rugby boys. She slapped the table as she delivered the punch line to what must have been a great story and brought all the boys to laughter.

      “So, you’ve been flying since you were ten years old?” asked Chrisfield.

      “Hold on there, mate. Where I come from you don’t ask a lady questions until you’ve been properly introduced,” snapped Bobbie.

      Eager to please, all the boys started introducing themselves at the same time resulting in a confused scramble of chatter until the room was silenced with a brief whistle and there stood Jonesy who then handed Bobbie a hot cup of coffee.

      “You’ll have to excuse my friends, ma’am,” Jonesy apologized. “They’re all uncultured Princeton jocks. However, not to be rude, I’ll be happy to introduce them.”

      Jonesy pulled his large wooden spoon from his apron and started from left to right, pointing as he went with the spoon. The boys offered varied forms of bows and tweaks as their names were called.

      “Lewis Collier, Bradley Harrington, Bart Haile, Mule Van Horn, James Franklin, Oscar Lynch, Big Tiny Braxton, Geoffrey Chrisfield, Stuart MacMullen, Kicker Stevens, Artie Lambert, Henry Vickers, Edward Cross, and… Stinky.”

      “Just Stinky?” inquired Bobbie.

      “You don’t want to know, ma’am,” answered Big Tiny.

      Stinky stood and bowed to shake hands with Bobbie but he was yanked back and held by Edward who pulled his watch cap down over his face.

      “Don’t be embarrassing the lady now, Stinky,” he laughed.

      “And you are?” Bobbie asked of Jonesy.

      “My name is Soo,” replied the cordial cook.

      “Sue?”

      Big Tiny snickered and Jonesy shot him a wooden spoon warning.

      “Soo Lee Min Jones, ma’am. Rhodes Scholar, Oxford, twenty-seven. And ship’s chef.”

      “Chef,” laughed Bart.

      Jonesy again threatened with the deadly spoon then turned back to Bobbie.

      “My friends call me…”

      “Shorty,” interrupted Bart, raising laughter from around the table.

      “Jonesy, ma’am,” said Jonesy, trying desperately to ignore their sophomoric antics. “Just call me Jonesy.”

      “And I’m Captain Horatio Buckmaster.”

      They all looked up to discover the Captain and Stanley who had just entered.

      “Gentlemen, baring any more… surprises, we should be reaching our destination by nightfall,” said the Captain. “We all have work to do and I’m sure our guest would like to get cleaned up.”

      “Irish is waiting in the cargo hold, gents,” added Stanley, thumbing over his shoulder toward the door.

      The rugby boys departed the mess, some shaking Bobbie’s hand along the way. Stanley nodded for Bart to stay, the both of them joining Bobbie at the table while Captain Buckmaster casually leaned against a post.

      “Mrs. Kincade, I’m afraid…”

      That’s Miss Kincade and it’s quite all right, Captain. I understand. No place for a woman here and all that.  You can dump me at the first port of convenience.”

      “Quite the contrary, Miss Kincade. I was about to tell you that there is no convenient port. We are bound for… well, not a place you might wish to be discharged.”

      “Oh. And that is?”

      The Captain looked to Stanley then continued with a suggestion.

      “However, there is an island of amiable population three days sail southwest of here. But that would be the decision of the ship’s owner.”

      “And who would that be?” asked Bobbie.

      “Mr. Wellington here,” replied the Captain.

      Stanley looked to the Captain, “Amiable. Just how amiable, Captain?”

      Captain Buckmaster answered with a slight nod of disapproval. Stanley then turned back to Bobbie.

      “Well, Miss Kincade…”

      “Bobbie,” she corrected.

      “Bobbie. You’re more than welcome to stay with us until you can gain better circumstances,” he offered, looking again to the Captain. “No harm I suppose. As long as she stays on board.”

      The Captain   nodded   agreement, knowing very well there was no other choice in the matter. Bobbie looked from one to the other and to a silent Bart.

      “Yanks, right?” she asked.

      Bart smiled and nodded a yes.

      “Say, you’re not smugglers are you?”

      Bart laughed and nodded a no.

      “Slavers?”

      Again Bart nodded a no.

      “Pirates,” she questioned further. “Some of your boys looked pretty beat up like they’ve been up to some kind of mischief.”

      “You might say they have but I assure you, you’re quite safe with us, Miss Kincade. As long as you stay about the ship,” answered Captain Buckmaster, turning to Bart and continuing. “Mr. Haile, would you be so kind as to find our guest some quarters and a more suitable wardrobe?”

      “Sure thing, Skipper,” acknowledged Bart. “Come along Bobbie.”

      Bart hopped up and exited the crews mess followed by Bobbie who looked back just before leaving.

      “Nice of you, Mr. Wellington,” she said. “For a Yank.”

      Stanley smiled in return then asked, “Oh, by the way. What were you doing flying out here in the middle of nowhere anyway?”

      “Crashing,” smiled Bobbie.

      Bart was leading Bobbie along the passageway to her cabin when she offered the first bit of conversation.

      “Nice boys, that bunch. Princeton, eh.”

      “Yep,” confirmed Bart.

      “What’s that?”

      “What’s what?” returned Bart.

      “Princeton.”

      “Princeton? Oh, it’s a home for the chronically auspicious.”

      “Oh,” replied Bobbie. “Say mate, that Wellington fellah is kind of cryptic isn’t he.”

      “Stanley? Nah, not really. Just got things on his mind.”

      “Oh yeah. Like what?” she questioned.

      “Um… stuff. You know. Big things,” answered Bart, then whispering to himself, “Like getting us all killed.”

      “What? Afraid I didn’t catch that.”

      Bart stopped at the door of her cabin and opened it.

      “Well’p, here you are. Home sweet home. I’ll dig up some duds for you. Anything else you need just ring for the butler.”

      “Butler?”

      “Just kidding.”

      Bobbie watched as Bart moved off down the passageway, shrugged her shoulders and turned to enter the small cabin. As she did she saw across the small room a mirror and in the mirror the oil and smoke smeared face of a stranger. She then realized the stranger was herself resulting in a hastily blurted, “Oh shit.”