The Watch Dog

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

The delicate wrought of pixieish features showed forth a shadow of puzzlement at the Marin's reply.

"Non, Monsieur Flint...Tu errone'. Pardon moi...." He eyes flitted to where Chanault had remained near chamber entrance than back. "It is not that I feel you unqualified to perform such tasks, not in the least. You see, I only tempt Fate on occassion and with carefull calculation when such needs arise. What I was saying and obviously did so in a manner that could easily be misconstrued, was the fact that I hope that no situation should arise of such chaotic virtues in which I would be forced to call on extra hands. The apology is mine alone in the poor portrayal of my thinkings....Je etre desole'. "

Raphael watched the interchange with cool aloofness, then slipped as a shade to the further wall of the small room to sit in familiar chair. As her verbose soothed the rigidity that had laid as a mantle over the Marin's wide shouldered frame, Jacquelyn considered his request.

"Yes! I do believe that such an inclination would be quite pleasurable an excursion for you both." She nodded to punctuate the statement, looking past Mister Flint to gain further approval of second opinion. Chanault gave the merest declination of chin.

"Tres bien! If the weather clears, I should think that a few hours above in the warmth of Caribe sun will do wonders for his e'spirite, non? Consider it done and permission granted."

[Dorian Lasseter]

Dorian paced across the quarterdeck as the gloom deepened and the light faded further. The sound of the steady rain muffled all else around the ship, not that there was much to be seen or heard, however he was not one to throw caution to the wind.

"Mr. Badger! have some o' th' lads prepare th' best bower, tis time ta heave to an' settle fer th' evenin'..."

"Aye-aye, sah!" he replied and headed forward to see to the setting of the anchor.

Mr. Lasseter remained where he stood and watched the chosen men through the mist as they cocked the best bower at the cathead. When Mr. Badger gave the signal that it was ready, Dorian took the speaking trumpet and hollered out the orders,

"Prepare ta heave to! Haul in all canvas!"

As men clammered up the ratlines and began fisting in the sails, he counted ten heartbeats before giving the next order.

"Drop anchor!"

He faintly heard the men holler the acknowledgment, 'Drop anchor, aye!', then heard the thump of the chock being driven out, then a very faint splash... As they had been under very light sail, when the anchor bit, and the cable came up taught, there was only the slightest feeling of the change of motion. He looked skyward and smiled as the men aloft were already heading down.

[Tudor MercWench Smith]

The ward room was empty for the first time in hours. Tudor had been keeping up on clearing out dishes as she could, but with the flurry of activity and the constant coming and going of various crew and officers, there was still some considerable mess to clean up before she could retire. She sighed as she loaded up the last tray of dishes to be taken back to the galley, and lifted it, balancing it on her hip, slowly trudging for the galley. It had been a long day and she looked forward to rest.

Upon reaching the galley, she was a greeted with the sounds of mirth and conversation. Inside, she saw a small number of her crewmates sharing stories over tea. They hailed her as she entered, and she smiled wearily, setting down the dishes. After much cajoling from those assembled, she agreed to join the small party that was gathering there. As much as she needed rest, she also needed the camradiere. It kept her mind from wandering.

Finding a nice sized barrel, she sat herself upon it, accepting the tea Woodington offered her.

[William Brand]

July 18, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

Just after Second bell of First Watch

William reached the quarterdeck and the downpour as the men aloft were making there way down to the weatherdecks. He noted the presence of Mister Lasseter and Spied Mister Morgan at the wheelhouse with the Coxswain. Mister Pew's armed watch continued in their places forward, aft and aloft and the Master Gunner had two men making a continuous inspection on the coverings for the main guns. Mister Johnson was even now at the number seven gun affectionately called Beelzebub.

Light from the galley windows was spilling forward onto the gundeck and much mirth could be heard from within. There was no mistaking the Cook's laugh amidst a mixture of other voices.

A similar din was rising up from below and William was fairly certain that the Master Carpenter was playing her flute.

The sounds mixed well with the rain. William liked night rain at anchor. He altogether despised it on the move, but at rest it had never bothered him much. He went starboard to look out into the gloom and noted the distant Los Hermanos each time the lightning illuminated or backlit the islands there.

"Soon." he thought and pondered on treasures unknown.

[Capt. Lazarus Gage]

The laughter that filled the galley was a welcome release to all. Tudor arrived and took a seat with some tea in hand. These were the times that made the bad times and friends lost bearable. I turned to our new arrival with a smile, “Come tudor, sit and share your thoughts with us.”

[Silkie McDonough]

Murin had finished bathing just before the last bell. She sat patiently waiting for the promised light meal. Doctor Fitzgerald and Chanalt had come and gone. Another bell sounded, Murin’s stomach growled loudly. The doctor and her mate must have been called away. Her independent nature would not allow her to sit idly another minuet. She stood, testing her strength and her sea legs. Sure of her footing her bare feet took her to the door where the parade of people with the bathing items had entered and retreated. She opened the door into a small corridor. Seeing no one she stood for a moment getting her bearings. To her right the corridor ended in a door that, she surmised, led to the deck. Across from her an open door where much light, laughter, and the aroma of food spilled into the corridor. Murin padded across to the door. Her empty stomach as the driving force she peeked into the room. There she found the galley. In it were all manner of people laughing and sharing drink. “Parrdin mae.” Silence fell on the room as all faces turned towards the gaunt woman with damp reddish curls wearing nothing but a chemise standing in the doorway. Her courage waned momentarily but the hole in her stomach urged her on. “Missure Shan-alt mentioned requestin a light meal fer d’lady an mae.” With slight trepidation she continued “Ifin the cook could make up a tray I ken take it back t’d surgery m’self.”

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

Raphael returned to the Galley to check on request progress. The ring of mirth and good fellowship played the companionway and as he neared, the throw of shadow across planks below gave indication that someone was standing just within entrance border. The light scent of parfumed nature caught his senses attention, soon to be given visual confirmation as he stopped just outside portal to focus upon wayward charge.

The pale deadlights narrowed a fraction as he studied the figure immediately afore him. Stepping to closer proximity, he spoke to Murin's hearing with near silent issuance.

"Mademoiselle, is there something that brings you out into the night?..."

[Silkie McDonough]

Murin turned with a start to see the stealthy Frenchman. The quick movements made her head spin with hunger and fatigue; she used her good hand to balance herself with the door frame, “Well sur, tis m’stomach.” Murin’s other hand laid on her empty belly. “I’ve no doubt that tings have been attended to but m’feelin a bit hollow, n’ya were otteriz occupied, n’I ken do fer myself sir.” Looking into his light green eyes she began to feel like a youngster that had misbehaved. Her chin dipped a bit but she did not break eye contact with her the surgeon’s assistant. She was a guest here, and should have had a bit more patients. “My apologies ifin I’ve o’stepped m'bounds.”

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

"Non, mademoiselle... there has been no tresspass comitted."

Raphael offered his arm to her, "It is that your constitution is wanting and that it may not be wise to wander out unattended."

The young Frenchman glanced to the others within Galley confine, lingered briefly on the Captain's Steward, then back to his charge.

"Mademoiselle, allow me to escort you back to your companion and then I shall return here to procure your meal."

[Silkie McDonough]

“Tank ya sur.” She turned back to those in the galley but their attention had been drawn away from her again. Murin gingerly took the arm offered her, feeling a bit weaker than she had initially thought and allowed him to lead her back to the surgery. She continued to talk as they walked, “M’concerned about Ana. She is as if walking dead yet I ken see notin wrong save fer need of food and rest. She is made fer d’life uv’a lady, I’m afraid our time t’getter on the island has been too much fer her.” A silence fell between the two as he took her to the chair she had been occupying for what seemed like an eternity now. Yes, food and rest ...and the throbbing hot pain in her hand.

[William Brand]

July 18, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog

Fourth Bell of First Watch

William and Dorian conversed for the better part of an hour on subjects ranging from horses to German politics. All the discussions of the day's business had already played out in the Ward Room, and with the Watch Dog at anchor they were able to speak on other things. While they spoke above, a fight had broke out below.

Quarrels and disagreements were fairly common in the suffocating spaces of the berth deck forward. The crew was all but piled upon one another there, despite the division of the watches. Personalities both varied and of differing cultures and classes would commonly clash in the long term. This was not an unexpected thing, but the Watch Dog had proved extraordinary in her relative peace aboard ship until now.

The day had been a long one. Men and women were soaked through to their bones from their labors above and on the water. Many of them were tired past common courtesies. As it happened, the entire matter played out due to unsure footing. Robert Thatcher had come below bearing hot food from the galley. Thatcher stumbled against Jean Dorleac who was stepping forward from under his hammock. This caused Thatcher to spill the better portion of his supper on the deck, and Luigi, not seeing the slippery spill, stepped into it and went flailing. One blindly swinging arm struck Jean Dorleac across the chin and sent the powder monkey sprawling. Luigi's own meal was hurled upward into the waiting face of Manus Hingerty. Hingerty was not greatly hurt by this, but he was angry before he could fully assess what had happened. Seeing Thatcher's half empty plate, Hingerty labeled him a 'Damned foolish jackanape!' and struck him across the chin. What followed after was a half-lit brawl of misunderstandings, tactless accusations and more than a few mislaid punches. Blows meant for one man would fall on another. Any remaining crew members not yet involved in the scrape, were now jostled in their hammocks by the chaos.

The Master Gunner, less than one bell abed, arrived half dressed just ahead of Mister Pew. Both of them came onto a confusing scene. Mister Badger was standing over a blinking Hingerty. The Bosun's balled up fists were shaking from the adrenaline of his startled awakening and not a little anger. His clothes showed that he too had received a portion of Luigi's airborne supper and he was bloodied by misdirected elbow. Still, Mister Badger's anger seemed fueled by other reasons. Rummy, the Master Carpenter, was picking herself up from a tumble of fallen crew members. One of Hingerty's poorly calculated blows had struck Rummy across the back of the head and knocked her down. Badger, like the animal of the same name, was bristling. Seeing a fellow officer and a woman struck in such a manner, intended or not, brought out the warmest of indignation in him. The Bosun had landed the only true and capable blow of the night and Hingerty looked utterly dazed from it.

Mister Pew and Mister Youngblood were left at somewhat of a loss. The cause of the fight was not immediately apparent. This did not keep Mister Pew from stepping into the widening space with his pistol, nor did it keep the Master Gunner from glowering at his gunnery crew.

Mister Lasseter arrived behind the Master Gunner. "What's all this?"

No one said anything for a moment. No one knew what to say. There were no reason for the fight. No real one. Most of the those who had traded fists in the dark had no idea what had happened. Some of them were rubbing their eyes more from sleep than injury. Mister Badger helped Rummy to her feet, and still, no one answered.

"Speak up." Mister Lasseter urged, his tone careful, but commanding.

Robert Thatcher stepped forward and straightened a little, "Twas an accident, sar."

Mister Lasseter looked around at the 'accident'. At least ten crew members were nursing part of their face or limbs. The slightly disheveled Master Carpenter seemed no worse for wear, but Badger was bleeding a little from his nose and the man's dander was obviously up. Recognizing that the Bosun was in a mood well suited to deal out a little discipline, Mister Lasseter gave the matter over to him, returning to the gun deck with Mister Pew.

Mister Badger smiled a smile that was anything but heartwarming and Mister Youngblood gave his gunnery crew a look that said, 'Tomorrow, gentlemen. I'll deal with you tomorrow.'

[Pew]

::Awakened from slumber first by the drop of the anchor, and then a moment later, roused from my hammock from the sound of fisticuffs being thrown about, I grabbed my pistols and headed towards the commotion.

Seeing fists a flyin', even with our bosun head long in the thrall, made me initiate the doglock on my pistol. Stepping into the fray, our Quartermaster arrived on the scene, before I could purge the whistle that had been building from within my throat.

Speaking with the bo'sun, Mister Lasseter handed the matter over to him and nodded towards Mister Youngblood and myself. As Mister Youngblood headed towards the galley I accompanied our Quartermaster to the gun deck.

"Mister Lasseter, a word sah . . "

[William Brand]

Mister Lasseter took refuge under the small overhang of quarterdeck at the aft gun deck. The rain had slowed since earlier, but with no signs of stopping it paid to remain out of the weather whenever possible.

Down below, Mister Badger had begun his own storm of words, and Mister Lasseter shook his head.

"What's business do you 'ave, Mister Pew?"

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

“Tank ya sur.” She turned back to those in the galley but their attention had been drawn away from her again.  Murin gingerly took the arm offered her, feeling a bit weaker than she had initially thought and allowed him to lead her back to the surgery.  She continued to talk as they walked, “M’concerned about Ana.  She is as if walking dead yet I ken see notin wrong save fer need of food and rest.  She is made for d’life o’a lady, I’m afraid our time t’getter on the island has been too much fer her.”  A silence fell between the two as he took her to the chair she had been occupying for what seemed like an eternity now.  Yes, food and rest ...and the throbbing hot pain in her hand.

As was normal to his nature, the Sphinx said nothing after depositing his charge back to former perch. The pale jade focus travelled from where she sat then onward to the border of outer wall, where elementals waged on the bout for dominance. The strike of determined water assulting wooden curvitures gave forth a lulling cadence to the Frenchman's hearing and for a passing of minutes, he remained frozen in posturing to appreciate the song created by rain determination.

With a musician's ear, he concentrated on the rises and falls of rythem's play, then suddenly retuned his attention to the young Irlandaise. The pale jade wandered from the angles of her face downward to the injured the injured she craddled unconsciencously. Turning away, Raphael moved from her to the presence of heavy chest across the chamber's width. With nimble ease, the lid was taken from secured stature and raised to gape at the beams above.

After a moment's scrutiny, the Sphinx glanced over shoulder, "Mademoiselle, I am sure that you might find more comfort to the duration of this day if I attend to your malady."

Selections were made and stool obtained, the objects of intent laid upon a small table brought into service. Sitting on three legged plateau, Raphael offered his right hand to her, indicating she offer her own. He gently turned the offended apendage to different positions in order to fully observe the extent of transgretions. Murin's natural reflex to draw away with the examination's discomfort paused his manipulations and the pale sights captured her own as origin accent wove tightly around his verbose.

"Mademoiselle...These next momments shall give you no great plasir, but you will grateful in the near future for the sacrifice."

Reaching to table surface, the weapon of preferance was secured. Reflection of hanging lamp lumination danced the petit legnth of narrow foreceps, caressing the German steel wrought to dissipate at fine honed twin points. Pale pools of sight lingered on her own briefly, then centered intently on the first broken and buried tine of native succulant flora...

[Pew]

"What's business do you 'ave, Mister Pew?"

"Well sah, dunno wot business you 'ave planned for tha crew . . . but come mornin' should this 'ere weather slow a bit, I'd be willin' ta take some of tha crew ashore for a little look see of tha island. Seein' as ya didn't get a proper look around on account o' findin tha ladies an all . . . Some the lads below may also wanna take their leave o' the bo'sun 's well."

Mister Lasseter chuckled a bit and put his hand to his chin as if in considering the request.

[Silkie McDonough]

"áigh!"

Murin's hand pulled instinctively back from the pain but Chanault held firmly and continued his work. She tried to mentally detach herself from the appendage with some success. She took her mind to the floor of the surgery ward studying the tight grain of the oak at her feet. Each time the steel points stabbed at the inflamed tissue searing like a hot poker her body would tense. She noted how the planks joined tightly. Unconsciously, she began to bite her lower lip. She visually traced the grain around a small knot in the wood. The discomfort increasing with the pressure on her lower lip could not mask the torture Chanault inflicted upon her. She followed the grain to its end where it joined the next plank. Bringing the back of her good hand to her mouth she silenced herself before any sound escaped. Following the next line of the grain back she noted a gash in the wood where some blade tip had left its mark. She inhaled sharply and held her breath! Her eyes closed tightly against the attack on her hand! Her mind seemed to wrap around the excruciating pain. Tears began to flow from her eyes but she would let no sound distract the Frenchman's concentration. The intense pain gave way to a throbbing and the free flow of warm blood washing the wound as the metal instrument was withdrawn.

Murin looked at Chanault through tears. He held her gaze for a moment. His pale eyes held a deep kindness that she had not expected to find there. Silently he continued.

[Silkie McDonough]

The pain in her hand in these last moments had been nothing compaired to those inflicted upon her back by the ‘work foreman’ at the plantation after she had refused Mister Edward Hodges unwanted advances for the final time. That time he had cornered her in the study as she was dusting. He backed her between a book stand and the corner book cases, his body pressing against hers, trying to kiss her lips. She had managed to thwart his advances in the past but he persisted, claiming that he owned her. No person could own another! She would not be taken by a man she detested! She twisted out of his grasps and knocked the book stand to the floor. He attacked again, grabbed her around the waist, turning her to face him, his hands grasped at her skirt, trying to lift it as he pinned her against the desk. She stopped trying to block his hands and simply slapped the man’s face with all of her might. That had the desired results but it also brought his wrath down upon her. The bright red welt remained on his face long enough to be noted by the others in the house and for the stories to reach the field before the lass herself; earning her some respect and trust from the other field workers.

Kate had begged her father-in-law not to have Murin beaten, urged him not to send her from the house but the master of the plantation’s pride had been wounded. The bookstand had been damaged and the mark on his face would not be gone when Lady Chittenden, who was due soon, would arrive. He wished to wed the old widow and gain her lands to further expand his wealth. He had been courting her for some time and was confidant that she was won now that his son and daughter-in-law were on the island assuring her some refined female companionship on the estate. He would not be able to explain away the handprint on his face and was forced to send word that he would not be available for that days visit.

Murin was immediately handed over to the ‘work foreman’, given a severe lashing, and sent to the cane fields. The fresh wounds had stung, salty perspiration running over her back and only a light linen shirt between the broken skin and the sun. She had taken great satisfaction in knowing that the old letch’s face and pride were stinging also. That was the day she began plotting her escape, the escape that brought her to the deck of the Watch Dog.

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

The finale cacti spine withdrawn, Raphael replaced surgical instrument to its former status on table companion. Carefully, he turned the angered hand over for final inspection before reaching for a section of woven cotton in which to dab seepage. Giving back control of the apendage, he procured another cloth and removing himself to a nearby water basin, filled the concave with fresh water. The cloth was dunked and satisfied with the dousing, the Frenchman took his placement back on stool surface.

Once again the pale deadlights focused on her own of richer hue, fluid momement produced a square of linen and lace which was handed to the young woman. Although Chanault was generally considered cold and aloof, there lie a deeply hidden soft area within his soul to the fairer sex. It was not often glimpsed, an elussive quality that could be kindred to sighting a chimera...never the less, it existed. The large luminecent drops of salt content that Murin had tried so steadfast to control, stirred that rare compassion and in reply to such conjurings, the Sphinx proffered the expensive kerchief for her use.

Being from an elevated household, he turned his attention elsewhere as she took his offering; an act of propriety to keep any embarrasment to minimum stature. The simple cloth of fresh water drench was set upon table to await service need; pooling its semi contained burden onto wooden surface. Glancing to a smallish jar of linement content, Chanault broke the chamber's silence.

"When you are at ready, Mademoiselle... I would recommend that you use that swatch of damp cloth to refresh your hand. I believe I have rough handled it enough and that your judgement in this matter will prove better than my own. After which, I will apply a salve and dress your injuries."

A light rapping sounded at the main entrance, a heralding to precursor dinner's arrival...

[Silkie McDonough]

An uncomfortable smile momentarily brightened the golden glow in Murin's hazel eyes as she accepted the delicate handkerchief. She marveled that such a thing would be offered to her. This simple gesture sparked the smoldering embers that remained of her independent free self. A reminder that she was no longer a servant, free will was hers to give and receive. Using her right hand she dabbed the salty water from her cheeks and eyes with the lovely linen square. She lingered momentarily in the gentle scent, inwardly dancing with the unexpected pleasure it brought her.

Her sunburned cheeks now dry she tenderly laid the elegant cloth on her lap making note to ask Ana, given the opportunity, what the proper behavior would be; wash and return it when she could, or return it immediately while still damp with her tears?

"Go raibh maith agat." Masseur Chanault turned to her, the slightest hint of misunderstanding in his pale green gaze. That, she noted absentmindedly, was the only place his expressions, if any, could be read. Misunderstanding… she mused to herself distractedly. “Oh! Pardun m’sur!" Understanding sudenly flashed across her thoughts, she had used her mother tongue! "I ment, tank ya vedy moch.” Her knowing expression mirrored his understanding as she observed aloud, “D’language uv ones home ramains in ones heart ferever, as duz d’home.”

Her mind wandering to the shadows of her life in the northeast reaches of Ireland she turned her attention to the task of mopping the freshened wounds. Holding her left hand above the table she lifted the damp cool cloth in her right and gingerly trailed it back and forth across the inner surface of her left hand. Wincing at her own touch she continued the unpleasant task. Turning the cloth so that a clean patch was used after every few passes she allowed the water to do most of the work the cloth barely touching the flesh. When the majority of the blood had been washed away and the soft cloth pink with the diluted crimson she set it on the table where it had rested previously. Her strength waning still, she presented the palm to her physician with a graceful but confidant gesture. She smiled softly. “Yer touch is nil so wicked sur. N’um grateful fer your attention.”

[William Brand]

"Perhaps this is a matter for the Cap'n." Mister Lasseter offered, gesturing to the Fo'c'sle deck. The Captain was there peering out over the starboard cathead. Mister Pew made his way forward and broached the topic with the Captain. He explained the commotion below and offered the suggestion of a foray to the island. William considered on the matter. He walked over to the larboard rail, Mister Pew following after.

"I mean to put the Watch Dog at anchor at Los Hermanos tomorrow. There to search out the Ilex fortune. With the weather as it is I plan to keep the crew close. However, a foraging expedition of Los Hermanos might yield additional discoveries about the loss of the Apollo. Perhaps even some additional survivors."

"Aye, Cap'n."

"Very well, Mister Pew. A party of seven should suffice, with yourself at the head of it."

"Thank you, Cap'n."

[Dorian Lasseter]

Mr. Lasseter overheard the Captain giving Mr. Pew leave to head the search party on the morning, which brought to mind the damage suffered by the Patricia earlier. He headed to the ships boats berthing area to see if the Carpenter and her mates had been able to do the necessary repairs. As he came upon the cutter, he saw freshly applied paint on the bow where it had once been split. Yes, the repairs had been made, she was as seaworthy as ever.

"Excellent, indeed....."

He nodded to himself and looked about the darkened ship and further relaxed, even as he thought on what Mr. Badger might be giving as punishment to the crew who caused the ruckus belowdecks. He wondered if the Bo'sun was at the moment making up a cat, as there wasn't one aboard the WatchDog when they fitted her out. If that was the case, he would have to limit the flogging to only a handful of lashes, maybe even only one or two per offender... If any at all... Flogging was not something he liked and was not a form of punishment he would use unless truly necessary... He pondered on this for several minutes before heading back to the quarterdeck...

[William Brand]

July 18, 1704 - The Watch Dog - Berth Deck

Five Bells of the First Watch

Mister Badger's anger had not abated with the explanations he shouted out of the offenders below. He was in a poor mood. For one, he was splattered with food. He was also tired and his face hurt from an elbow that had found him sleeping. He glared about the dimly lit space. He weighed each man's actions and came to the decision that Hingerty would serve out his punishment in the galley, fetching and carrying for Mister Gage. In addition to this duty, he would be packed into the service of laundering all of the crew's clothes below for a period of one week.

For their parts in the trouble, Robert Thatcher and Luigi would be on half rations for the week to remind them that 'This is what becomes of men who spill the ship's rations'.

Mister Badger could find no serious fault with any others. Instead, he reminded all present that any fighting aboard ship would be severely punished. He also reminded them that the Captain's own temper was not to be trifled with.

As for Jean Dorleac, he was given one day off and Rummy was allowed the rum rations alloted to Thatcher, Hingerty and Luigi for the week's duration. Rummy would later share this turn of good fortune with the ship's Blacksmith.

[Dorian Lasseter]

Arriving back at the helm, he again takes the logbook in hand, pages to the last entry. He retrieves the pen and ink, lays a passage of the recent events and breathes a sigh of relief...

"Mayhaps when this rain lifts, so will th' spirits o' th' lads...I pray it 'appens soon..."

He put the book and other items back in place, realized he had laid his pipe in the niche awhile back, so he retrieved it. Clenching the stem in his teeth he searched his pockets to reveal he still had his pouch of tobacco. He brought it forth and packed the bowl, putting the pouch back in former surround he then bent close to the binnacle lanthorn and lit the fragrant herb. He stood for a moment, making sure it was drawing well, then made another round topside... He was weary, but his watch would not be over til eight bells had rung...

[Tempest Fitzgerald]

An uncomfortable smile momentarily brightened the golden glow in Murin's hazel eyes as she accepted the delicate handkerchief. She marveled that such a thing would be offered to her. This simple gesture sparked the smoldering embers that remained of her independent free self. A reminder that she was no longer a servant, free will was hers to give and receive. Using her right hand she dabbed the salty water from her cheeks and eyes with the lovely linen square. She lingered momentarily in the gentle scent, inwardly dancing with the unexpected pleasure it brought her.

Her sunburned cheeks now dry she tenderly laid the elegant cloth on her lap making note to ask Ana, given the opportunity, what the proper behavior would be; wash and return it when she could, or return it immediately while still damp with her tears?

"Go raibh maith agat." Masseur Chanault turned to her, the slightest hint of misunderstanding in his pale green gaze. That, she noted absentmindedly, was the only place his expressions, if any, could be read. Misunderstanding… she mused to herself distractedly. “Oh! Pardun m’sur!" Understanding sudenly flashed across her thoughts, she had used her mother tongue! "I ment, tank ya vedy moch.” Her knowing expression mirrored his understanding as she observed aloud, “D’language uv ones home ramains in ones heart ferever, as duz d’home.”

Her mind wandering to the shadows of her life in the northeast reaches of Ireland she turned her attention to the task of mopping the freshened wounds. Holding her left hand above the table she lifted the damp cool cloth in her right and gingerly trailed it back and forth across the inner surface of her left hand. Wincing at her own touch she continued the unpleasant task. Turning the cloth so that a clean patch was used after every few passes she allowed the water to do most of the work the cloth barely touching the flesh. When the majority of the blood had been washed away and the soft cloth pink with the diluted crimson she set it on the table where it had rested previously. Her strength waning still, she presented the palm to her physician with a graceful but confidant gesture. She smiled softly. “Yer touch is nil so wicked sur. N’um grateful fer your attention.”

The entrance to companion way screaked its protest on being opened, allowing those who stood beyond passage within. Three jack tars hesitated just inside, seemingly in mental quandry as to how one could possibly show respect to the two young woman and balance their burdens as well.

Raphael stood, deadlights lingering on Murin momentarily before turning to survey the trio. With a small gesture of directional indication, the Frenchman singled out a surface in which the meal was to be laid. His poise of an officer overseeing subordinants lay as a mantle over lithe frame; plainess of garb, nor forgien surround would never remove what was ingrained. With offering laid to rest, the three hands stood in mismatched adornment and company, sneaking glances towards the young woman. One, a bit bolder than his comrades, allowed his gaze to linger overlong and realized his tresspass when Chanault approached to stand afore him; a hint of contempt smoldering withing the twin jade pools.

Although the offender outweighed and towered over the Surgeon's Mate, his uncomfortable shift in stance gave evidence to the effect of intense scrutiny. Never wavering from the lay of focus, Raphael spoke in chilled soft tone, as the tars were thanked for their service and dismissed. The trio left the surgical realm in controlled hurry, causing a tincture of smile to play the Sphinx's lips as the door latch secured itself once more.

Moving to survey the meal offered, he noticed by way of peripheral, that the Irlandaise's companion had drifted to sleep in the time that had passed recently. A weighing of options took place, as he considered whether she should be roused or not to dine. Conclusion was drawn that she would have to be woken soon regardless, the chair she occupied would not suit for proper rest.

"Mademoiselle, perhaps it would be best if you rouse your companion. Some nourishment will do her well, than you may both retire. But first, allow me to finish tending to your hand , no need to undo what has been done."

Returning to stool's plateau, Raphael once again held forth his hand awaiting Murin to proffer her own. The salve and dressings were applied with practiced quickness and he gave a slight nod in approval to end result.

[Pew]

::Taking my leave from the Captain, I go below decks to plan out what needs to happen in the next few turns of the glass.

Sitting at the small desk in the cabin, I find that there has been much commotion in the armoury over the evening. Eric has assigned one of the powder monkeys to maintain a position in the small room with a pail of oil to keep the weapons cleaned at the end of each watch. He has spilled quite a bit, but has done his best to tidy the room with what rags he has about. With a nod to the lad, I continue writing a few more notes for the next day's journey to shore.

Finding the light growing dim, and my eyes not adjusting, I feel it's better now to get what rest is available since we know not what tomorrow brings . . .