Almost no structure in Dieppe Bay Town can be called old. Ramshackle, occasionally. Weather worn? Absolutely. But not aged, built as the town is on the skeletons of itself: ruined first by the Spanish, then by the sea, then by fire, then by-- That there's anything there at all is either a small miracle the kind of which is only ever possible at the edge of the world or proof for how unkillable empires must be.
Not that Dieppe Bay is so particular about the company it keeps today. Across Saint Kitts in Basseterre there might be trouble found from sailing straight into port as if they belonged. But not so here as men and slaves and sugar and ships hemorrhage toward the kinder southern landfall. Or maybe the north end of the island has traded hands enough times that it knows the value of turning a blind eye to all kinds of undesirable visitors as long as they bring commerce and coin with them. The Walrus sits at anchor just there beyond the coral reefs, a black shape against the running tide, and all of Dieppe's great guns have long since fallen away into the sea.
There should be no reservations about taking on fresh water and victuals here. And yet, the familiarity of other shipping in the area had kept Flint lingering over the possibility of St. Johns for some time before committing themselves here. Travel over a thousand nautical miles only to find Charles fucking Vane waiting for him. Naturally.
No matter. He decided hours ago not to care. If, after orchestrating the effort to take on water, Flint has found his way to the last place on the island Vane is likely to be, then it must simply be a coincidence.
Of the dozen shops left clinging here in Dieppe Bay, only one has a books. They're tucked up in a loft space, the main floor dedicated to far more useful miscellany (charts and maps and mail packets, silks and faintly chipped china - so far removed from the sale of flour and sugar and fruit as to be useless to a ship looking to re-up its stores). Disappointingly, most of the books are in French and useless to him. But he's committed to combing through the small collection anyway, spending long minutes by the upstairs window with its nearly complete view of the bay trying to parse enough of the text in a likely looking volume to decide if it's worth taking back to someone who can read French well enough to digest it.
The creak of weight on the stairs brings his attention up from the page.
no subject
Not that Dieppe Bay is so particular about the company it keeps today. Across Saint Kitts in Basseterre there might be trouble found from sailing straight into port as if they belonged. But not so here as men and slaves and sugar and ships hemorrhage toward the kinder southern landfall. Or maybe the north end of the island has traded hands enough times that it knows the value of turning a blind eye to all kinds of undesirable visitors as long as they bring commerce and coin with them. The Walrus sits at anchor just there beyond the coral reefs, a black shape against the running tide, and all of Dieppe's great guns have long since fallen away into the sea.
There should be no reservations about taking on fresh water and victuals here. And yet, the familiarity of other shipping in the area had kept Flint lingering over the possibility of St. Johns for some time before committing themselves here. Travel over a thousand nautical miles only to find Charles fucking Vane waiting for him. Naturally.
No matter. He decided hours ago not to care. If, after orchestrating the effort to take on water, Flint has found his way to the last place on the island Vane is likely to be, then it must simply be a coincidence.
Of the dozen shops left clinging here in Dieppe Bay, only one has a books. They're tucked up in a loft space, the main floor dedicated to far more useful miscellany (charts and maps and mail packets, silks and faintly chipped china - so far removed from the sale of flour and sugar and fruit as to be useless to a ship looking to re-up its stores). Disappointingly, most of the books are in French and useless to him. But he's committed to combing through the small collection anyway, spending long minutes by the upstairs window with its nearly complete view of the bay trying to parse enough of the text in a likely looking volume to decide if it's worth taking back to someone who can read French well enough to digest it.
The creak of weight on the stairs brings his attention up from the page.