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Bootstrap Bill Turner

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BOOTSTRAP FINANCE is the way most businesses fund themselves in the very beginning. The entrepreneur uses imagination, know-how and hard work instead of spending money. Bootstrapping is starting with a different product or service, maybe one with greater short-term revenue potential, to get enough cash to fund the real business idea. Sometimes it's about maintaining close control of early development, to 'see how it goes' before taking on big financial commitments. For some it's a preference. For others, it's a necessity.

I was tricked into returning to Madame Fluer's establishment to examine one of the girls.  I was hit from behind and woke up in a cage deep in the bowls of  The Roaring Lion, a pirate ship. Why would anyone want a mere surgeon's apprentice? I vowed to stand my ground and return to my beloved Marianna as pure and righteous as always.

Alas, much time has passed.  I'm still at sea... I am the ships surgeon and am forced to sign the articles.  Doing so allows me the respect I much deserve, and consistently am denied due to my age.  I've come a live in the arms of my beloved wife Ginny.  So enchanting a creature, the mere whisper from her lips wipes away the ugly reality of my life.   I'm surrounded by the most odeous of men - pirates, scallywags!  Yet, I remain an honorable man.  The lives of the crew often rest in my hands.  Such experience I wish on no man, but indeed, it has made me a superior surgeon and physician.  No better education could a man want.

Dreams and reality never seem to take the same path.  I must make my own way seperate from the Blacklick fortune.  The sea has provided the income and refuge I need. I  provide for my son William and hide from his mother while acting as surgeon for most awe inspiring woman put on gods green earth, LadyCassandra Seahawke, my  Captain.  Not so different than most men these days I dare say.

I've returned to Blacklick Manor a cursed man. Every waking moment tortures me.  Every pleasure is denied me.   My wife, my beloved Ginny,  a gift of god,  looks upon me with tormented eyes.  Her touch unleashes a beast so vile, that  to be as husband and wife has become a dance with the devil.  My only hope is a son who knows nothing of my plight.

Started a new life in Boston Massachusetts with my new wife Camille in the year 1775. Camille and our unborn son died.  I wanted to die with them.  Little did I know that in little time my lost family would be reunited with and my beloved Ginny and I would be together again.

I went to tombstone to start a new life.  Didn't quite work out and left the novel.  Oh well, can't win 'em all.  Maybe I'll go to a different western novel and start again.


We're outbound from the grey old port and bearing north to-night;
And many days will pass before we hail the harbour light;
But be content, my skipper men, in fo'c'sle or in hatch,
For we can cure all wounds you get or anything you catch.
When dog-hoods on the heaving pans or polar bears attack
And tear the flesh from off your bones or clothes from off your back,
We've knives and needles, splints and lint, and Friar's Balsam too,
To put on the repairs
and make a happy man of you.
When freezing gales are blowing from the lonely Greenland coast,
And you go blind upon the ice or wander from your post,
And cannot see the trail of blood across the glaring white,
We've venerable collyria which will restore your sight.
When swarming down the bulwarks or while boarding half-steam on,
The gaff-barbs tear your face and breast, perhaps a' finger gone,
Or if the lads are shooting with a rifle tall besides
We'll dress your wounds when all burnt-down, the ship at midnight rides.
I hear the crushing ice-sheet break before the Atlantic swell,
The gleaming bergs are floating south, outbound from Cape Farewell;
The rocking pans grind all night long upon the storm-scarred shores,
And shrieking comes the northern gale, the straining rigging roars.
Black downward rides the wrack of clouds athwart a sunless sky,
The catching slob grows thicker and the whelping ice is tight,
The black-heads at the bobbing holes rise at the steamer's churn,
Your work is yonder in the storm, your homes are far astern.
So, all hands out upon the ice with rifle, gaff and knife,
And keep in the ice-master's sight in peril of your life.
from the rocking floe you fall, swim back to ice again,
Black with the blood of bedlammers at early morning slain.
The harps are panned. The hoods rise up behind the roaring keel.
The scanner's hoarsely shouting to the man up at the wheel;
And how is thirty thousand and a hundred every man?
Oh! don't you hear them yelling out: "All hands upon the pan " ?
Heave out the coal into the sea and off the hatches drag;
And go all day among the pans retrieving flag by flag.
And now our flags are hoisted on every yard complete,
And we are off for port again. The Devil take the fleet!
But e'er we steer by Baccalieu one other toast I bring,
Drink it, my skipper men, for me, yes, drink till stanchions ring;
Drink my toast here upon the sea, drink it on shore, at rest,
Set it upon my shoulder, lads, the old ship's medicine chest.


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October Featured Contributor

Bootstrap Bill Turner: Pan Historian Featured Character

Pan Historian Newshound!

A gift from Synn Gardenn!

Colonial America

My Novels:

Short Cuts
Ile de Torture ~ Tales of Pirates and Buccaneers
Pirates of the Caribbean: Clash of Steel - Out of Print
Thicker Than Blood - The Sisterhood and Their Brethren
Zone : History
Zone : Westerns
The Io Effect - Out of Print

My Reference Books:

Mystery School
From the Balcony
Writer's Block
The Music Studio
Wild West
The Symposia
Kiss the Cook
Creatures of Darkness

My Blog:

Boot's Blog

My Salons:

The Zen Salon
Boot's Place
The Bandit Queen's Hideout

My Friends:

Bellatrix Lestrange
Lady Cassandra Seahawke
Liaus Horatius
Tatiana D Ilyinskaya

My Favorite Reads:


Zone : History
Fear and Apathy in Pinewood Valley

My Pandas:

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