Durand watched the men of the Navarra busy themselves with what he could only assume was their version of manning the sails. It was a sloppy affair and the ship's bosun seemed more concerned with looking capable than actually being capable. To be fair, the bosun was not a poor sailor, but life aboard the merchantman had strained even the best of the men and life under their tyrannical captain was showing in the face of every weary sailor.
Durand sucked a little air through his teeth when another man very nearly fell from the rigging. Durand was not a man of the sea himself, but he knew poor direction when he saw it, and while he was not actually afraid of the wide, uncertain ocean, he still maintained a healthy respect for the medium and ground his teeth a little at the thought of drowning with the Spanish.
"Rhum et un pistolet..." he muttered quietly.