Tudor MercWench Smith

A brief, weary smile twisted at her mouth, causing the recently staunched blood of cracked lip to start to well again, and out of habit, she raised the heel of her hand to press at it, and wipe away. Tutting at her, the captain batted her hand away, and dabbed at her mouth with cloth. "That was easy, compared to this." She said, with the first bit of bravado she was able to muster. "I was armed and prepared. Mostly, I was armed." She laughed a bit, trying her best not to wince as William continued to tend the myriad of bruises. It was painfully obvious that she still was on edge. She sat on her seat, slouching but not relaxed and she could not let her gaze settle anywhere - not from disinterest in making eye contact, but simply that the kept watching the door, lest it swing open with Saltash behind it. "You are handling it with far more strength and bravery then many others have done before you. You inflicted quite a bit of damage on him for his trouble." He thought to encourage the bravery and the pride that was naturally in her manner, and her eyes did flicker for a minute with the sheer joy of having at least stood some ground before falling to the enemy. "The Devil himself couldn't take me to hell without me giving him a fight." She said, again smirking, and again wincing at the pull it made on her wounds. "And. . . it isn't as if this is the first time something like this has happened to me. And I won't be surprised if it's not the last." She said in an oddly light tone for such a serious subject. As if feeling the burden of such statements, her face shifted, dramatically and quickly, to a look of steely determination, with a touch of madness about the eyes, and she bolted upright from the chair, almost knocking the captain off his perch on his stool. She started pacing frantically, holding onto the back of her neck, all her hair pinned under her hand. "Captain - do you have some scissors, or a sharp knife somewhere around here?"

Tudor ducked into the doorway that was held for her, not caring if they were heading for the brig or anywhere else, except for maybe the small confines of her sleep area. All she wanted was to sit. Her feet felt heavy, her head pounded and stung from where it had been bounced off the floor, she was dizzy - not from the injuries but just from all strength finally sapping out of her. She wanted to sit, but wasn't sure that she could make it further then the ground right in front of her. Noticing the unsteadiness, Brand proffered an arm to her, as if he was escorting her into a ballroom, rather then the great cabin to which he was now opening the door, although the whole time his face continuing to remain stoic. At first thought, Tudor wished that perhaps the Captain was being more clear with his thoughts as she was in mood to try and decipher moods and body language, but she now thought the better of it. Her own emotions were riotous enough, and she was glad for the pillar of solemnity beside her -it steadied more then her steps. She still didn't speak another word, all of them were used up, as her captain pulled out a small chair for her. Collapsing on it, she never looked more like a porcelain doll, only now slumped over and discarded. "Mistress Smith, please make yourself comfortable in here, while I go and see to matters." He still spoke formally, a apparently collected calm, and he turned to exit the room again, but before he was out of earshot, she finally found some small voice again. "Captain?" He hesitated. "Please, can as few of the crew know about this as possible?" Another piece of her broke, asking this. She was certain that such a pitiful request would solidify any doubts the Captain might have had about the extents that her vaguely described 'attack' had gone to, but it seemed that what was left of her pride had to be shattered further in order to be rebuilt, and the only way she would be able to survive was if she didn't have the pitying, or judging, looks of every crewmate as gossip spread. As soon as she asked, she started ennumerating the people that might have overheard or would have to be told; Vandervender, Robert Thatcher had been watching, Mr. Warren, the marines that would be sent to detain Saltash . . . .she kept counting in her head, wishing the number could be fewer . . . .

The storms had started to abate, suddenly dropping to no more than a light drizzle, just as quickly as the had set upon the battered ship. The general din of topside both comforted and terrified her, the space to breath, no shadowy corners, gave her a sense of security, but every yell, bang, sound, creak of the ship, sound of footfall behind her made her skittish, and all of these noises ruled on the deck. Everyone was too busy to notice her as she followed Vandervender, but she tried to shrink into herself as they walked, suddenly conscious of just how she must look. As they approached the captain, she pawed nervously at her face, trying her best to rub away the dried brown, and the fresh red, that stained her face, with her sleeve. More blood on the linen shirt she wore wouldn’t signify - it was already covered, both in her own and Saltash’s. “Je spreekt hem eerst.” She mumbled to Vandervender, bidding him to speak first to the Captain, remembering her basic grasp on his language, though he would have understood her in English just the same. She still wasn’t sure she had it in her to speak the words she knew she must. William spared them both a glance as they approached, but turned to look again at his Steward, surprise at her state on his already troubled face. “Mistress Smith! What in the seven hells . . .” She raised a hand to cut him off, insisting that she could hold her peace until the carpenter’s report was given. Every word that was spoken between the two men in regards to the securing of the ship caused the knot in her stomach to tighten, knowing that soon, it would be her turn to speak. All she could make out from the conversation was that the ship was out of immediate danger, for the time being, the details of how this had been accomplished, or how such progress was to continue were entirely unheard by her. Their conversation ended, the Captain bade her to speak, and taking a steadying breath, she began. “I was, uh . . . attacked, Sir.” She tried to sound calm and collected, but the devil may care attitude she wished for was missing, and her sentence sounded stilted even to herself. Hearing a commotion from the other side of the ship, she saw that Saltash just appeared on deck himself, almost looking as if he had been chased, and she no longer had time to fumble for words. “Saltash. He cornered me below.” Again she looked over her shoulder quickly. Her attacker had just found her in the sea of people that ran about, and his eyes spoke murderous volumes as he noticed who she was speaking to. “I am fine, but I tell you so you know, so that he might be detained. There is too much happening on board to have him guarded, and I would hate others to fall afoul of him. Young Dash already bore the brunt of his anger for attempting to intervene.” Again, a nervous glance cast behind her told her what her soldier’s sense had already felt, that Harry Saltash was trying to get to her as quickly and discretely as possible, and he was already halfway closer to her then he had been the moment before. “I understand that I am accusing a shipmate, and that no action can be taken against him until both sides are heard, but please - do not let him have liberty of the ship.” Her voice wavered at this, and she gritted her teeth. “Please, have someone put him under lock until . . . until.” She was running out of energy and the little courage she had was wavering as he approached closer and closer. “If I have to be locked somewhere as well, as a party to violence on the ship, I understand, but please, please,” She winced, tears starting to well in her grey eyes as she could almost feel him looming, only a few yards away, attempting to look busy as if he was working, while still holding at his sliced ear and face. “Keep me far away from him. Please.” The last plea came out of her almost as more of a gasp for air, weariness finally washing over her, as she slouched, no longer able the proud posture she was attempting, and started shaking from agony, pain, misery, chill and fear. She couldn’t meet her Captain’s eye, but kept her face turned down to the planks.

"YES!" She said, perhaps a little to forcefully, but then curbed her emotions - the sheer joy to see more faces, the relief that they were others with more strength. Her next words were measured carefully, but she spoke them quickly. "Please, some one get Dash here to the surgeon. I can't carry him there myself but he needs to be looked to, badly. He was hit very hard." She paused, unable to hide a groan of relief when, Sparshott reached for Dash, shifting the weight of the boy so it was no longer bearing down on her own battered body. "Get him to Mistress O'Treasaigh and tell her to bolt her door and not let any one short of an officer anywhere near the boy." This part was more than she should have said, and the words tumbled out of her mouth without her weighing them, but she couldn't regret saying them. As much as she wanted to give details of the occurrence of moments past to as few people as possible, she also could not bear the idea of Saltash finding his way to the surgery, and devising a way to silence the boy from confessing what he had witnessed. The thought quickly crossed her mind that depending on just how hard he had been hit, Saltash might not have to do any more to keep him from talking. Biting back that bitter thought, she sized up Tobias quickly. She had known that he had been working with the Carpenter and guessed what his original destination had been. "I need to get to the Captain, but I need someone to walk with me. I cannot go alone . . ." Her Dutch was limited in the best of circumstances, so she didn't even attempt to speak to him in his mother tongue, as she normally might. Sparshott glanced her over, blood smeared over her face, broken lip still adding fresh to the stains and the red marks around her jaw already starting to turn to bruises. "But surely you need to go be seen by the Doctor too? What in God's name happened?" Shaking her head, she determined to answer only of his questions. "I am fine," Although as she said this, she began to notice every ache and hurt more, as if her body was calling her a liar. "It is more important I get above decks right away." And away from where ever Saltash might be hiding right now she thought. "I MUST speak to the Captain, right away." The emphasis on this need was just as much to convince herself. Talking to anyone, let alone the Captain, about this was the last thing she wished to do. Given her options, she would have chosen to wipe off her face, go back to work and pretend nothing had happened, over having to confess to her ranking officer that something like this would happen - it would make her look less strong, more fragile, weak, a liability, unable to take care of herself, foolish - and she hated to cast herself in such a light. But more foolish would be to keep silent to save her pride and have Saltash walk about the ship free and merry as he pleased. It wasn't for herself that she had decided she needed to at least speak to the master of the ship, but for every other woman in the crew. It was at this moment that another crew member, this time of a four-legged variety came barreling down the corridor, all teeth and barks. What he was after, if anything, Tudor couldn't speculate, and instead left the pup to his own devices, sure that his mistress would be after him in a minute. She couldn't be below another minute, it felt as if the walls were closing in, making it hard to even breath, and so she took the first steps up the ladderway, unsure if Vandevender would follow as she had requested.

The cool metal in her hand seemed to clam Tudor, all riotous thoughts stopped instantly the moment the blade was safely in her palm. A million thoughts had been screaming since the moment she had be pinned to the ground, but she couldn't fight them or silence them, but instead had dwelled on them, thinking perhaps they could drown out her current reality. But her grasp finding the knife caused everything to shift. She still fought and thrashed as she had been doing, but it was more calculated now, less of a hopeless attempt. She used the motions that Harry Saltash all but expected from her to disguise her turning the knife around slowly a few times in her hand, to get an idea of the size and sharpness, without drawing attention to it by turning to look. A light thumb brushed against the edge told her that Saltash kept it sharp - either from being an experience sailor or from being a brute who wouldn't be above using the tool as a weapon when no others were allowed to be carried on ship, she couldn't say - but either way she was glad of it. Despite the rounded end, she intended to inflict as large an amount of damage as possible. Sparing a quick glance over at the young powder monkey who had both so bravely and so foolishly tried to come to her aide, Tudor allowed herself a brief second of worry for the boy. He had been hit hard, and probably hadn't suffered as many fists as she had over the years, and the only thing that had stopped him being flung further by the force was the wall. Her anguish grew as she saw him crumpled on the ground, but kept herself from losing her newly found focus. Now it was not only herself that was depending on her clear head. Finally, his mirth at injuring the boy worn thin, Saltash turned back to his original object of amusement. He fell upon Tudor's neck with his mouth - it could neither be called kissing, as that implied gentleness and affection, nor could it be called slobbering, as it was not nearly so simple-minded - he bit, with force, adding to the list of bruises Tudor was sure to have if this ordeal ever ended. But this action, as unwanted in and of itself as it was, was exactly the sort of thing the Steward had been waiting for. Grasping the knife firmly, steadying the blade with her index finger, she raised her arm, hooked the sharp edge agains the back of his ear and pulled forcefully. Between her forward motion, and his recoiling from the pain, she sliced the clear through, and not willing to loose the forward momentum , continued to slice across his face. What started off as a thin red line that crossed his cheekbone, his left eye, the bridge of his and cut through his right eyebrow suddenly turned into a geyser of blood, although Saltash was still most shocked about his ear. He bellowed angrily, a injured bull in the matador's ring, but Tudor had no red flag to wave, only a spear. Shifting her grip on the knife she dug the edge into his upper arm, with as much force as she could, trying to push through all the skin to the muscle. He tried to hit her, to pin her hand down, but the cut across it's face served the purpose she had for it - the blood dripping down his face was blurring his vision and she managed to evade his grip, raking her weapon across his chest. His weight on her lightened enough that she could sit up, and as loath as she was to put herself any close to him, she wraped an arm around him and gave him another cut on his back, the mirror image to the one on his chest. With that, and a small shove, she finally was able to wriggle her self out from under him. Stumbling to her feet, she pulled her slops back up to her waist, buttoning as she tried to find her footing and hurry her way across the room to where the boy lay unconcious. "Boy . . . which one are you . . . I don't remember, I'm sorry" She spoke to him as if he was conscious and would be offended that for the first time in months she couldn't remember everyone's names. "Dash! That's it Dash, wake up, c'mon, wake up. You need to get out, now! DASH!" She tried in vain to wake him, yelling, shaking him, tugging on his hair. Part of her said to leave him and run. Saltash would most likely follow her and leave Dash in the heap on the floor, but she couldn't leave the boy - he hadn't left her. Dash's eyes fluttered open, staring up at her dazed for a moment, but quickly his line of sight focused on something just past her shoulder, fear filling his bleary eyes, and he just manged to mouth 'behind you' in time for Tudor to turn, and see Saltash lumbering towards her. Once again, she used his own momentum against him and rammed the heel of her hand forceably upwards against his nose, causing what some would consider a knee-weakening cracking sound to echo. Tudor found it quite satisfying, almost as satisfying as seeing the man fall to his knees from the sharp pain cause by the snapping of nasal bones. Not waiting to see if he would find his strength yet again, Tudor did her best to lift William Dash, who had once again slipped away from the waking world, up from the floor and carry him from the scene of the horrors. This was no small task in and of itself, and an incredible feat considering she bore injuries herself. The boy, while lighter, was the same height as she was herself, and was completely limp, passed out from pain no doubt. "Stop!" Saltash shouted, still disoriented but standing again. "Don't! I'll leave you be, just don't tell anyone what happened here." He toppled over again as the ship shivered in a strong wind. "I'll never come near you again, I swear, but just don't tell anyone, or else!" Twenty minutes prior, this would have sounded threatening, but now his words were choked on blood, his face was in tatters and he could barely stand. Or else WHAT? Tudor thought to herself, but didn't stop in her attempts to take the young boy and flee. She couldn't think of a single thing that he could do to her that would be any worse then what she just had to bear, so his threat was beyond empty to her. Besides, someone MIGHT just notice something. Your nose is broken and I will have bruises for weeks. As if he sensed her skepticism, he gave intimidation another attempt. "I'll tell everyone you seduced me - lured me in - and started to attack me, to rob me!" This time, she couldn't hold her tongue. "I wouldn't willing seduce you if you were as rich as Croesus you disgusting oaf! As is, what would I steal from an ugly half-wit with barely two shillings to rub together!" She yelled back at him, never ceasing to keep moving forward. It was beyond foolish, to continue to let him distract her, and to continue to antagonize, but the words flew out of her mouth too quickly to be stopped. Hope, she could see hope in the form of the steps to the upper decks now, she was halfway down the narrow corridor. She wanted to rest for a breath, but heard him starting to set after her, and so she quickened her pace. She was almost to the steps when she lost the hold she had around Dash, nearly falling over with the boy's dead weight.

Only being able to imagine what kind of state the hold was in, Tudor set her course first for her own quarters, knowing that there she would be able to find a lantern in undamaged state, as well as various other tools that might help her. She quickly tossed a tangled mess of thick twine for lashing her foraged scraps of wood together for easier carrying, into a bag, along with a long, dull knife, useless for cutting but entirely practical for prying, and scraps of rags, either for drying or wrapping around her hands to prevent splinters. She was certain that there were other tools more suited for her tasks stored somewhere on board, but she wasn’t entirely sure where to find such items, and she would be damned if she was going to bother any other crew member who might be useful elsewhere to help her locate them, when she knew she had passible substitutes in her own trunk. Finally certain that she had all that she might need in her task she turned to leave, but stopped short when she opened the door, and a mountain stood, leaning against its frame. “Saltash?” It took her a full second to realize who it was. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have something you should be doing?” She gave her best attempt to not sound annoyed, as she did not have any reason to dislike the man, he had been aboard such a short time. Likewise, however, she had no reason to like him either, and his malingering outside her door while others slaved to make repairs to the shop did not do much to steady her patience for him. Deciding that the conversation needed to remain short, Tudor attempted to push past him, but he shifted his weight to prevent her. “You are in my way. “ She snarled, and managed to duck under his arm that barred her path. “What’s your hurry, little miss?” Finally the man spoke, turning to look at the retreating woman, and causing her to stop dead in her tracks and turn back to him. His broad face bore what she could only imagine was what he would call a flirtatious smile – she thought he just looked like every other lecherous sailor that thought she might be an easy conquest. “My hurry? My hurry? “ She repeated his words, her pointed features contorting into a horrified look of disdain and annoyance, all hopes of remaining civil gone. “In case you didn’t notice, Saltash, another ship just collided with ours? I don’t know about you, but I rather like keeping the ship that I am on from sinking. Now, go back to your duties, and if you have none assigned to you, find something useful to do and leave me be.” She sneered at the man then turned away again, determined not to waste any more time on trying to figure out what the man was about. She hurried her pace, but in two strides he had caught up with her, and grasped at her shoulder, stopping her movement forcefully and almost causing her to lose her footing. She tried her best not to flinch as his fingers dug in, a vice-like grip, almost feeling as if he might crush the whole blade, and force his fingers and thumb to meet. “You can’t talk to me like that!” “Can’t I? I thought I just did.” By now, it was more than clear to her that neither Harry’s intentions nor his manners were good, but Tudor refused to be intimidated and looked the man squarly in the eyes. “And I am about to do so again. You may not respect me as an officer, a crew mate or even a person, but if you do not do as I say, I swear to you, I will make your life a living hell. Now, let go of me you giant idiot.” Her final words were said through clenched teeth, and her delicate, pale hand shot up from her side and thumb and forefinger just managed to wrap around the man’s large wrist, grasping tightly onto his pulse points, causing his hand to go numb and his grip to slacken. Not hesitating to see what he might do, she started to walk away again, this time with much more haste, and with a different destination in mind. She was no fool to think that this man wouldn’t continue to follow her, nor foolish enough to think that if it came to any kind of physical altercation – which seemed likely with how forcefully he had just held her – that she would stand any kind of chance, being unarmed and facing an opponent literally twice her size in height and weight. Above deck was her safest option for the time being, and while she loathed the fact that she would be abandoning her task, going above she could find others to replace her, and could stay in the eye shot of others. Her progress was stopped yet again, but this time she couldn’t help but gasping in pain as the man’s hand wound into her hair, causing her neck to jerk awkwardly. Pulling her towards him, Saltash actually managed to lift the Steward of the ground, by only her curls, but he quickly wrapped a muscled arm around her ribs. “I said, you can’t talk to me like that.” He could feel, and was amused by the fact that Tudor’s breath was becoming a bit labored, his crushing arm around her knocking the wind out of her. With a force that would rival that of a mule’s kick, Tudor’s small heel smashed into his kneecap, causing him to lose his grip on her for a second time, and this time, also causing him to have his leg buckle out from under him. Her landing from being dropped was less then graceful, her own footing lost, giving her no real chance of escape. As she tried to quickly pick herself up off the floor, Saltash grabbed her ankle, dragging her towards where he still knelt. “You stupid bitch!” He growled, still wincing from the knee that was already swelling. “That hurts!” She couldn’t hide a derisive laugh. “It wasn’t supposed to tickle you stupid shit!” This earned her his large hand flying at her mouth, the loud smacking sound echoing for a second. Tudor blinked a few times, trying to shake of the impact, but the blood was already welling up from the lip that was now split open, and her nose, having caught half of the blow, was not in much better condition. While still recovering from the stinging in her face, Saltash had already rediscovered his strength, and with his grip having never left her ankle, he started dragging her back towards her small quarters. “Let GO!” She shrieked as loudly as possible, knowing that he would pay it no heed, but hoping that maybe she might be heard over all the other cacophony of sounds that swirled through the ship at that exact moment. In other actions that she assumed to be futile, she quickly landed two blows to the man’s head, one balled up fist smashing into his temple, the other landing squarely between his nose and cheekbone. Such strikes would have felled men with less of Saltash’s strength and experience with brawls, but all it served to do was distract him for another moment, but not enough to loosen his grip for a third time. Wincing, and blinking, he picked her up again, and limped his way back the last few feet to her small corner of a room, and forcefully threw her onto the floor again, causing her head to bounce off the wood floor. The pain was excruciating, and Tudor’s line of sight blurred, but she did not lose consciousness. She almost wished she had. Barely able to see and pain coursing through her she tried again to writhe her way free, but now Saltash’s full weight was upon her, straddling her waist, one hand crushing her jaw, it was clamped so tightly over her still bleeding mouth, the other hand searching for the buttons at the fly of her slops.

B the time she found the carpenter, the carpenter's mate and the few crew members that had been assigned to their assistance, Tudor had recounted any and all carpentry experience she ever had. It had totaled one project, when she once was responsible for reattaching a table leg to it's top. The table was made sturdy by the time she had finished but it had taken dozens of nails, half of which had been bent, ruined, pulled from the project and cast aside. If the water that was flooding in was any indication, there wasn't not the time to have some so useless with a hammer, attempting to help. She would more then likely make more holes, then she would patch them. "How can I assist? I am useless with tools, but I have two free hands." "Aye, and a mind for every detail about where things are stored about the ship." The Carpenter quickly explained his proposed repairs and told her of his need for more wood for the undertaking. Be it debris, ripped from unneeded areas, whatever could be had to help patch the Ship's wounds. "I know there are some sturdy crates that supplies were brought aboard in. Some should be empty by now. If not, I will make them so. I would bring you the ward room table if you thought it would help." She said, making a mental note of the size and quantity that would be needed. "The broken up crates should do fine, if you can muster up enough of them. Don't go bringing the Captain's table to be chopped up for repair scrap. He might have need of it." "Not as much his need for it then need for this hole to be plugged, I'm sure. No need for a table if there is no Ward Room, or ship even, to keep it in." Tudor laughed a bit despite the situation, as she started to leave to set about her task. She was grateful for the moment of lightheartedness. Watching the skilled craftsmen at work, she felt almost as if she could start breathing again. The damage was still great, the danger was still serious, but even if she didn't, someone knew where to begin to set things right, and that was something. She took her leave with a promise to hurry back from the cargo hold with what she could find, asking for neither assistance nor accompaniment from any of the crew that were gathered there, and everyone else continued on with the work they did. All but one. No one noticed when Harry Saltash left after her.

Upon arriving back upon the deck, Tudor realized that one chaos had been replaced by another. Andrew Light was giving the orders of a Bosun - she could only assume that the Captain had name him such - and the and through the newly promoted man's commands, the chatter, noise, yelling and general din had died down to a somewhat normal buzz. However, the storm was starting to gain ferocity. Rain poured down heavily, and within a moment of being exposed to it, there was barely an inch of dry cloth about her and her bright hair had been darkened from the water, the spiral curls drooping. The storm did not bode well, and for neither the first nor the last time that day, Tudor wondered why storms and crises always had to strike in tandem. She looked about the deck for a sign of the commander of the ship, completely at a loss and in hopes of some instruction. She was a fair weather sailor - the few storms and events she had seen in the past few months aboard the Dog were both the width and breadth of her seafaring knowledge and she had no inkling as to what task was best suited both to her skills and to the crew's needs at this exact time of emergency. As she looked forlornly around the deck, all she could see in her mind's eye was the image of the shattered tea-cup, everything was broken, but this time she did not know where to begin to clean. The rag that held the broke porcelain was still in her hand, momentarily forgotten. Taking an opportune second between gusts of turbulent wind, she tossed the knotted cloth into the choppy waves that splashed around the ship's hull, took a moment to breath, then looked around again with fresh eyes. Now was not the time to allow herself to be overwhelmed by circumstance, although that is what she wished she could do. Now was the time for action, for work, and so work she would. Whatever task she could lend her hand to, she wanted to. There were guns to be re-secured, debris to be shifted; All these tasks seemed as trivial as the smashed mug of a few moments ago in comparison to the entirety of the damage, but she hoped staring at the tasks one at a time would keep her from being overwhelmed by the enormity of all of them together. Upon arriving back upon the deck, Tudor realized that one chaos had been replaced by another. Andrew Light was giving the orders of a Bosun - she could only assume that the Captain had name him such - and the and through the newly promoted man's commands, the chatter, noise, yelling and general din had died down to a somewhat normal buzz. However, the storm was starting to gain ferocity. Rain poured down heavily, and within a moment of being exposed to it, there was barely an inch of dry cloth about her and her bright hair had been darkened from the water, the spiral curls drooping. The storm did not bode well, and for neither the first nor the last time that day, Tudor wondered why storms and crises always had to strike in tandem. She looked about the deck for a sign of the commander of the ship, completely at a loss and in hopes of some instruction. She was a fair weather sailor - the few storms and events she had seen in the past few months aboard the Dog were both the width and breadth of her seafaring knowledge and she had no inkling as to what task was best suited both to her skills and to the crew's needs at this exact time of emergency. As she looked forlornly around the deck, all she could see in her mind's eye was the image of the shattered tea-cup, everything was broken, but this time she did not know where to begin to clean. The rag that held the broke porcelain was still in her hand, momentarily forgotten. Taking an opportune second between gusts of turbulent wind, she tossed the knotted cloth into the choppy waves that splashed around the ship's hull, took a moment to breath, then looked around again with fresh eyes. Now was not the time to allow herself to be overwhelmed by circumstance, although that is what she wished she could do. Now was the time for action, for work, and so work she would. Whatever task she could lend her hand to, she wanted to. There were guns to be re-secured, debris to be shifted; All these tasks seemed as trivial as the smashed mug of a few moments ago in comparison to the entirety of the damage, but she hoped staring at the tasks one at a time would keep her from being overwhelmed by the enormity of all of them together.

For once the role of clairvoyant was switched, and predicting Tudor's approach, the captain turned to look at her, as soon as he had finished calling out across the still turbulent waves to their sister ship. "Mistress Smith! get this man to the surgery." Her customary curtsy or nod of acceptance of her orders was missing, instead she flew right into action, motioning for the first unoccupied crewmates she found to come and assist. It took a combined effort to remove the man from the line, but soon they were making their way below and approaching the door to the surgery. Even if they had knocked, chances are the occupants of the room wouldn't have noticed. Managing to push open the unlatched door with her foot, Tudor continued to struggle to be of assistance in the carrying of the unconscious man, but no sooner had they laid the man out on the cot, then she realized state of pandemonium that the usually restful room was in. Everything that had at one time been on a table or a shelf was now on the floor, including several bottles and what appeared to have once been a cup of tea, before it had been knocked to the floor and shattered. Both women of the Surgery were running about the room, trying to put everything to rights. After sending the crewmen on their way, back to be of any assistance topside, Tudor briefly informed Maeve of what had befallen Paul, before offering to replace the doctor in the task of cleaning up shards of tea cup, so that she might be free to see to the patient. In the grand scope of all that had happened in the past fleeting moments, broken china hardly seemed important - there were many other broken things that needed seeing to. But at that very moment, the pieces of porcelain were the problem that presented itself to the Steward. Who was to say how many more might come to the surgery in the coming hours, and if more were to come, the surgeon would need to be free of movement and have everything in order, not worried about stepping over broken bits with sharp edges as she worked, or wondering where all her tools went. After gathering up all the pieces into a found rag, and making sure that all medical tools and other necessary accoutrements were retrieved from various corners of the room, Tudor left to return to the upper decks, wonder what other proverbial smashed tea cups there would be for her to help clean up.

Tudor raised a brow as she looked at the shop, content to observe rather then question the reason for their current location. She simply waited for him to lead the way into the shop. Curiosity filled her as to what importance this errand fullfilled in regards to his conversation about finding a surgeon, if any, so she followed eagerly as they entered, taking in the sights, smells and layout of the building.

Nodding at the Captains bidding, she quickly made her way on board. She took a moment to secure the few purchases she had made on her way back to the ship, pausing for a moment to make sure that her letters were still folded and stored on her person, not willing to leave them anywhere. After doing so, she grabbed the items that the Captain needed and hurried back to where he was waiting.

After finishing with the captain, and being off duty, Tudor had gone ashore. Knowing that the intentions were to not be in port much longer there were a few more tasks she had to see to before being at sea again. As she hurried through the streets, she let her thoughts linger on some of her past conversations Captain Brand - particularly the meeting where he suggested that she learn the skills of the Coxswain and be numbered among the Marines. It gave her much to think about. While over the past months there were times she felt the need to find a diffrent title aboard, she was glad that the Captain wanted her to remain Steward. But likewise, she was glad for the opportunity to learn more and perhaps prove to be of more use in the future, and being part of the marines seemed as natural as breathing to her. Contentment filled her. Ducking into a narrow allyway not far from the pier, she quickly found the small tavern she had visited on one of her earlier trips ashore. Not many from the crew patronized this particular inn, not many even knew of it. Striding up to bar keep, she put all thought from her mind but the business at hand. "I am waiting for a message from Port-au-Prince, bearing the name Smith. It should have arrived by the hand of man from a merchant ship named The Virtue." The man smiled at her, a knowing smile. "Merchant ship, indeed." He turned and opened a large wooden box behind the bar and retrieved a thick letter, sealed in blue wax the impression of a flourished crest impressed in it. Taking it from the man with one hand she laid down a generous tip for him with the other. "For your troubles and your discretion." She said, with a smile and a nod of her head. Breaking the seal she looked over the myriad of documents enclosed. The first sheet of parchment on the stack enclosed, she smiled to see a short note in an uneven, scrawled hand. Last time I play yur message boy. Yurs, Dan. He still couldn't spell for the world, she thought to herself, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed. Shuffling the papers she started to skim through the diffent writings. Pleased with what she found she folded them back up and put them in her pouch for closer review later. As it was, she did not wish to be away from the ship for long. Turning on her heels she retraced her steps, back to the Dog.

"I have been aboard the Dog only a short three months, and was not made Captain Brand's steward right away. Most of this time has been spent on the seas or in ports where we were so occupied that there was no time for idle chatter. To that, I am only recently arrived to the islands." She shrugged. "And I myself have a bit of a history attached to my time before arriving at this juncture, of which the Captain has never pried. I extend him the courteousy of doing the same." She looked at him, a fierceness in her eyes, as if daring Roldán to challenge criticize her actions or loyalty. It was not the first time that he had seemed to question why she bound herself to such an ill reputed captain.

Taking a moment to process the blunt statements and questions, Tudor looked at the lieutenant unflinchingly. "Well, to such a plain speaking, I can only respond in kind." She paused to take a small bite of food. "The most I can say is this. That if you and your crew do no ill by us, that the Captain would do no ill by you. But that being said, I will state clearly now, that I do not speak for Captain Brand in regards to where we will sail to or if we would make any agreements as escort."

Tudor laughed to herself quietly. "I never retreat - only advance, and perhaps advance to the rear when I need to regroup." She lifted her glass to him, then took a sip. "But please, do continue. I absolutly can give no insight into these reports until I know who speaks them, for every man has his own agenda."

Feeling on more familar ground Tudor looked squarely at her dinner companion. "Indeed, Captain Brand has a history. Just as I do. And I am very sure you do as well. In fact, as far as I am aware, every sentient being that has breathed air has a history of some kind." She gave a cocky smile. "But what event is it in my captain's history that has your Captain unsure of his credibility? For truth to tell I am very keen to know." She didn't take her gaze from his face. "For I know as much of his history as I do of yours - a basic summary of life and events that brought you to this place, as well as a few allusions and suspicions to more intriguing yet less important details. I must admit that I myself, and most of my historied companions, work on the belife that it is a man's current actions that is the measure with which to judge him by, not previous ones. But tell me, do, of what has been rumored and said, for I love to hear stories, be they fiction or biography." Her tone was not defensive, simply matter-of-fact. She had no wish to even try to deny that there was undoubtably many misadventures attached to Captain Brand. But likewise she had no wish to admit to what she did not know for sure. "Do tell me of your good Captain's concerns and I will do what I can to say whether or not they are founded in reason."

Her brow arched as she gazed at him inquisitivly over the goblet she took in hand. "Well, sir, what is one man's wealth could just as easily be another man's useless baubles." She sipped her wine, trying to asses his words. She was never good with open admiration, leastwise when she was not playing a part, and she had yet to decide what part to play to the Spanish Lieutenant. Her mind raced frantically, but left her wordless where she wanted to be cunning and witty. So she simply took another swallow of the wine, and set the goblet down, freeing her hands to smooth out some creases in the green wool that pooled in her lap. "I suppose the question that arises is how do others see another's wealth then."

She gave a pleased smile. "This will be lovely Lieutenet." She said as she seated herself in the chair that was pulled out for her, making sure to properly smooth out the back of her skirts before she sat. She made a merry coment to De Le Cruz about his forsight in having a table prepaired for them. "You must have been very sure of my response before even I was." She said mirthfully. Soon, the idle conversation took up again, Tudor listening very carefully to every word spoken, in case to find any insight by tone or turn of phrase. She also found herself absorbing the atmosphere. She had seen many lovely buildings in her travels, but she found a simple elegnace in this converted building that spoke to her, as she gazed around the room and took in ever line and corner in the architecture. It always pleased her immensely when there was purpose and pleasure in such outings.

The sun was all but settled behind the horizon when they reached the pier. After disembarking himself, the Lieutenant offered an arm to Tudor as she climbed out of the jollywat. With instructions given as to where to leave the chests that had been brought ashore with them, Tudor and De La Cruz started to make their way through the city streets, just as lamp lighters started illuminating the streets.

As soon as she reached the trunks of her belongings, Tudor fell to her knees to sort through the myriad of items. Quickly finding the articles of clothing she sought, she donned the chosen shift, stays, petticote and green wool mantua with a nimble speed. After pulling her hair up and pinning it in place with an italian stilleto dagger and making sure she had her sets of daggers and muff pistol secreted away, she made her way back to where De Le Cruz waited.

"Well, I must speak to the officer of the deck before I go anywhere, as I am on duty. But why not come aboard while I seek him out. No reason for you to wait out there." She returned to where Jacob was overseeing the goings on in the surgical wards. "Sir, De la Cruz has invited me ashore for a meal. I understand that I am on duty, but with your permission, I'd like to go. Not only could I potentially glean some more information on the Navarra, but I could also see Doctor Fitzgerald's things safely ashore." She could tell Mr. Badger was not convinced. "I do not think that anyone should travel abroad without a companion." He seemed very hesitant, and not a little irritated. She tried to hide her snort. "Sir, I hardly think the Lieutenant will be likely to share any kind of useful information if we are chaperoned. But I assure you, I am more then capable of taking care of my self." With a grudging nod and a wave of his hand he sent her on her way. "But Miss Smith," She paused and turned to face him again. "I know that I am stating the obvious, but go fully armed." She just grinned a very mischevious grin at him. "But of course." She saluted him, then turned on her heels, and returned to the guest. "Well, Lieutenant, it seems I have been given leave, provided I drop some cargo off ashore. Now, if you could just bear with me as I change into something, less . . . worn." She said, with a grin looking at her slops, shirt and vest.

A puzzled bemusement crossed her face. "Is that so?" She had to admit the event was novel to her. Without asking, she assumed that it was the Lieutenant. With a shrug, she called some instructions over her shoulder to Kampaert and Hollis, then made her way towards the deck. "Ah, Lieutenant De la Cruz." She said approaching the rail. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" She said in a care free tone.

Tudor made her way around the medical rooms, gathering diffrent items that had been listed among those to be sent ashore. She moved mainly in a memory filled silence, saying very few words to Mr. Badger as they went about the packing. Halfway into their work, a knock was heard at the door. "Yes, Miss Tribianni?" Treasure was greeted by Tudor as she poked her head in the door. "I just wanted to let Mr. Badger and yourself know that a boat from the Navarra is on it's way across to us." Tudor paused in her actions and looked across the room. "Interesting. Wonder what that could be about." She pondered aloud.

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