It is interesting, that Thomas felt no mortal fear when Lieutenant McGraw was out on assignment, and that he has progressed past the days of gripping Gwenwhereistheumlaut's wrist and silently begging her not to participate, but his stomach still drops when the pistols start up and he knows Captain Flint is down there like a fox stuck deep in a hole with a flock of dogs upon it.
New experiences, he thinks, doing an admirable job of not looking stricken while Reinforcement is staring at him. Life is endlessly varied.
Should have seen that one coming. He does the next, at least, left alone only long enough for Hal Gates to shove the door open and say he's to come and go through the cargo alongside their own accountant.
"You've hired a new one?" he asks, adjusting the strap of a leather satchel full of papers across his shoulder. He has left the nicer one for purposes of someone fencing it; the one he's liberating for his own purposes looks like it's been used as a saddlebag on a very sad horse for many sad years. His gaze catches the line of newly present figures drifting by in their binds, and he feels an asphyxiated pang he's swallowed in the next heartbeat. "Did you hide someone under a bench this whole time, or will it be you and I and an abacus?"
Ingratiated is not the word for Flint's second, but he doomed himself to a friendly rapport with this resurrected radical when he made noise early on about having met him in a social capacity, thus preemptively ensuring nothing suspicious about them speaking informally. Thomas wonders sometimes if he wishes he'd never looked at him twice at Saint Kitts.
"That's funny," says Hal Gates, exactly in the tones of a man who has recently uttered the words No you cannot just shoot the prisoners. Why? Because I fucking said so, that's why. "No, no abacus today. The three of us--"
Here, a pause in which Gates realizes his new friend has been waylaid at the door. He makes a firm gesture of One Moment Please, then turns back to tell the interceding hostage taker to Kindly fuck off and find something better to do or I will find a job for you myself and you will not like it, at which point the temp hire in question is at last allowed past and remanded into the room.
"Mister Barlow, meet Mister Dufrense. Mister Dufresne here claims to read German."
Mister Dufresne's hands are not bound, but he does have the washed out and squinting look of a man who has recently seen more of a dark hold than the ship's deck. His hands tremble slightly as he removes a pair of glasses from the pocket of his battered vest. "Some. I said I read some German," he clarifies.
"Don't say that. We were just starting to get along."
i don't remember where i was going with the german stuff sorry
"Why Mr Dufrense, with only a little more effort you'll look worse than I did on my first outing aboard. Chin up, we'll muddle through." It would be very easy for such words to be warm and friendly, but Thomas makes no such effort. Dry and with just a hint of distant British chill; the kind of thing most men here find more off-putting than a drooling maniac running at them with a knife. Dufrense, conversely, looks like he'd be most comforted by a good dressing down from nanny about his attire. His lordship will just have to suffice. "You can read and write in English though, yes? Of course you can. See if you can't scrape up the broad strokes of this one."
He hands over a journal before moving to open the itinerary ledger for Gates, poking one long finger towards the entry preceeding the scheduled stop this vessel will never make. For helpful reference. "It looks like business as usual with no apparent obsfucation, to me, but I leave it to your more experienced eye. If everything saleable is still intact it won't be the payout my captain was hoping for, but nothing was ever going to be."
They could bring in a Spanish warship full of gold and Vane would still complain about it having Flint cooties.
"I have the feeling your captain will be just fine, seeing as he's being accommodated twice over." Helpfully, in case there was any question as to how they might be doing more than their fair share in this arrangement: "Not that I have any doubt Captain Vane enjoys your company."
It's truly amazing how that flat look Gates employs as he leans over to get a look at the ledger can turn a barb into good humor.
(Somewhere in the background of all this, Mr Dufresne is taking to the task set before him with admirable speed. Under different circumstances, given the comparison of no other company, it's the sort of thing that might impress someone enough to matter.)
"I won't be knocking off anything in the final tally for nanny services," he says, "though you've been very attentive."
Captain Vane likes him just fine and is despairing in his absence, he doesn't need anyone to mind him for a week to give the man a break. The Ranger is perfectly serene at all times, no one on the crew is neurotic, and Thomas adds nothing to the atmosphere of poorly-contained chaos. This is all true.
"To say nothing of hospitable." Twofold. It's a show of trust, outwardly, that Thomas hasn't brought along anyone else from his crew to act as a bodyguard. (His bodyguard is Captain Flint, hopefully no one is looking so closely at such an angle.) And the convicts. Their ultimate fate may not yet be decided, but it's looking better now than it did before the ship was overtaken, in Thomas' opinion.
There are tedious numbers to go through, books to match to the actual product in shadowy holds, inspections to be carried out, would-be bookkeepers to observe out of the corners of eyes. Sometimes piracy is an awful lot like running a large house; women would fare better at captaincy - or at least quartermastery, he's sure - than men, Thomas reflects privately. It's a wonder young Eleanor manages the inventory juggling she does, raised as she was like a boy. Interesting.
Dufrense gets stuck holding a lantern below, with a man Thomas doesn't know the name of pointing at the corner of a stack of containers, insisting on evidence of rats.
"Reach your hand in there and get it, then," Thomas says, an idea that's met with indignation but not outright refusal, since it sounds like a dare.
"I seen a man get his finger chewed off by a rat before."
"Do you need all your fingers for something?"
At this logic, a hand is surrendered, slithering in blindly to search for vermin. And then he screams.
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New experiences, he thinks, doing an admirable job of not looking stricken while Reinforcement is staring at him. Life is endlessly varied.
Should have seen that one coming. He does the next, at least, left alone only long enough for Hal Gates to shove the door open and say he's to come and go through the cargo alongside their own accountant.
"You've hired a new one?" he asks, adjusting the strap of a leather satchel full of papers across his shoulder. He has left the nicer one for purposes of someone fencing it; the one he's liberating for his own purposes looks like it's been used as a saddlebag on a very sad horse for many sad years. His gaze catches the line of newly present figures drifting by in their binds, and he feels an asphyxiated pang he's swallowed in the next heartbeat. "Did you hide someone under a bench this whole time, or will it be you and I and an abacus?"
Ingratiated is not the word for Flint's second, but he doomed himself to a friendly rapport with this resurrected radical when he made noise early on about having met him in a social capacity, thus preemptively ensuring nothing suspicious about them speaking informally. Thomas wonders sometimes if he wishes he'd never looked at him twice at Saint Kitts.
no subject
Here, a pause in which Gates realizes his new friend has been waylaid at the door. He makes a firm gesture of One Moment Please, then turns back to tell the interceding hostage taker to Kindly fuck off and find something better to do or I will find a job for you myself and you will not like it, at which point the temp hire in question is at last allowed past and remanded into the room.
"Mister Barlow, meet Mister Dufrense. Mister Dufresne here claims to read German."
Mister Dufresne's hands are not bound, but he does have the washed out and squinting look of a man who has recently seen more of a dark hold than the ship's deck. His hands tremble slightly as he removes a pair of glasses from the pocket of his battered vest. "Some. I said I read some German," he clarifies.
"Don't say that. We were just starting to get along."
i don't remember where i was going with the german stuff sorry
"Why Mr Dufrense, with only a little more effort you'll look worse than I did on my first outing aboard. Chin up, we'll muddle through." It would be very easy for such words to be warm and friendly, but Thomas makes no such effort. Dry and with just a hint of distant British chill; the kind of thing most men here find more off-putting than a drooling maniac running at them with a knife. Dufrense, conversely, looks like he'd be most comforted by a good dressing down from nanny about his attire. His lordship will just have to suffice. "You can read and write in English though, yes? Of course you can. See if you can't scrape up the broad strokes of this one."
He hands over a journal before moving to open the itinerary ledger for Gates, poking one long finger towards the entry preceeding the scheduled stop this vessel will never make. For helpful reference. "It looks like business as usual with no apparent obsfucation, to me, but I leave it to your more experienced eye. If everything saleable is still intact it won't be the payout my captain was hoping for, but nothing was ever going to be."
They could bring in a Spanish warship full of gold and Vane would still complain about it having Flint cooties.
no subject
It's truly amazing how that flat look Gates employs as he leans over to get a look at the ledger can turn a barb into good humor.
(Somewhere in the background of all this, Mr Dufresne is taking to the task set before him with admirable speed. Under different circumstances, given the comparison of no other company, it's the sort of thing that might impress someone enough to matter.)
no subject
Captain Vane likes him just fine and is despairing in his absence, he doesn't need anyone to mind him for a week to give the man a break. The Ranger is perfectly serene at all times, no one on the crew is neurotic, and Thomas adds nothing to the atmosphere of poorly-contained chaos. This is all true.
"To say nothing of hospitable." Twofold. It's a show of trust, outwardly, that Thomas hasn't brought along anyone else from his crew to act as a bodyguard. (His bodyguard is Captain Flint, hopefully no one is looking so closely at such an angle.) And the convicts. Their ultimate fate may not yet be decided, but it's looking better now than it did before the ship was overtaken, in Thomas' opinion.
There are tedious numbers to go through, books to match to the actual product in shadowy holds, inspections to be carried out, would-be bookkeepers to observe out of the corners of eyes. Sometimes piracy is an awful lot like running a large house; women would fare better at captaincy - or at least quartermastery, he's sure - than men, Thomas reflects privately. It's a wonder young Eleanor manages the inventory juggling she does, raised as she was like a boy. Interesting.
Dufrense gets stuck holding a lantern below, with a man Thomas doesn't know the name of pointing at the corner of a stack of containers, insisting on evidence of rats.
"Reach your hand in there and get it, then," Thomas says, an idea that's met with indignation but not outright refusal, since it sounds like a dare.
"I seen a man get his finger chewed off by a rat before."
"Do you need all your fingers for something?"
At this logic, a hand is surrendered, slithering in blindly to search for vermin. And then he screams.