“Superstition is for children and fools — I make damn sure ‘ze men aboard my ship know z’is well. Z’ey’ve no’zing to gain z’rough concerning z’emselves wi’zh my lack of a prick.
As for swines, I keep the cocksout of ‘zepigpen. Whe’zer z’ey want to be z’rown in or not is z’eir choice.”
Certainly such disbelief was to be expected — a woman in a man’s world was never to be an equal. Perhaps it was a presence of luck and fortune that her reign had proven its success throughout the years of her command. Mutinies, well, such was to be expected, though any capable Captain would survive an overthrowing. Those who remained obedient were disposable, of course, but there were the select few who remained genuinely loyal. — may be that her locked position was owed to that.
Eyes followed ventures of the lad’s stick, vision tracing each engraving and movement, before returning to lock upon hues of the Englishman.
“Aye, a crew. For someone wi’zh claims to no offense, you ‘ave a mou’zh quite fucking loose to questioning. Oui, I ‘ave a crew of fucking scholars wi’zh ‘ze biggest sacks ‘ze world has ever seen.”
Sarcasm aside, perhaps truth was in his words. It took something to sail under a woman.
Was is curiosity or otherwise? She cared not to inquire. Yet the more he pressed, the more suspicions of motive were pondered.
“And for someone carrying ‘ze name ‘Kidd’, I figured you far from some loyalist bent over ‘ze table for ‘ze British navy. Would it be correct to assume your relation to ‘ze late William?”
“Aye, ya’d be quite correct; though I doubt he ever knew me. The relation is in name only–wasn’t even raised a Scot. Sure he’d be quite… Disappointed, in the least.” He twirled the stick about as he watched for any sudden changes in the other’s body language, any sign of discomfort or suspicion. So far, all seemed well. Or she was hiding it very well.
“—And who taught ye bloody English, woman? Yer cursin’ more than me dear ol’ mum.”
He wondered how familiar this woman was with the other pirates of the area. It was possible he was the first she encountered, though knowing the character of others such as Calico, he doubted a woman mariner of this caliber would escape their attention for long.
No, it was quite possible she’d ran into the others by now–a few of them, at the very least. Pressing a thumb against his grime-coated chin as he reviewed her spoken words, thoughts snagged on a lack of a straightforward response to his prior inquiry.
“…Ye still didn’t quite answer my question, lass; what sorts of business do you involve yerself in ‘round here? Mercantile? Shippin’? Privateerin’? Not that I’ve heard yer people gettin’ involved in such tactics, but…” He paused, regaining his train of thought.
"…Yer quite far from Haiti 'nd Martinique, y'know. Can’t imagine y'just drifted up here, 'round the Bahamas.“
—–Lacking loyalty to the crown didn’t subdue his curiosity. The French were interesting.
And messy.
Bloody hell, were they messy.
He hadn’t been to Port-au-Prince, and he sure wasn’t interested in going there anytime soon.
“I am no barmaid and I am certainly no ‘ore. Is z’at ‘ze assumption made of anyone wi’zh a cunt wandering z’roughout z’ese parts? Booze cattle or cock sucker?” Weight was thrown upon one hip, posture shifting accordingly with not hand, but bottle resting against the bone. In cases otherwise, much more than the venom that dripped from words would have been spat towards the youthful male — younger men were ever so arrogant, after all. Yet the tone of the Englishman, it was nearly warming and approachable, so that she may feel it just to stay her hand and tongue from a plethora of offenses.
For a moment, eyelids fluttered, a disbelieving scoff drawn from her breath. Hardly a difference from any other settlement visited, yet somehow the thought still burned her cheeks with a flush of irritation.
Kidd, now that was a name of legend. Not preceded by James, of course, for the man of tales was known by William, and had long since met the grasp of death. She had heard of him once — perhaps several times, through her youth. Her father, after all, had not been stranger nor friend to the likes of pirates, let alone those of Scottish origin. She, however, reveled in such feats, in such ways that previous annoyances were discarded to address the other.
“Well, well… enchanté, monsieur Kidd. Emilie Moreau — I ‘appen to be passing z’rough wi’zh my crew.”
“—-…Wasn’t meant to offend, Miss Moreau; just statin’ an all too common reality. It’s hard to get by as a woman 'round this part of the world, what with superstitious sailors and pigs in men’s clothing.” A grimace grew out of the corners of his dried lips, accompanied by a quiet chortle. He too was in disbelief; a woman–French one, at that–completely independent, doing as she pleased around the Caribbean.
And a woman captain? That was unheard of.
…At least not to someone in a position to envy her.
“But… have a crew now, do ya? Brave men—possibly even clever ones. Yer quite lucky.” Reluctant hands traced their way back to where he left the stick to stand in the sand; he was showing too much sentiment on this issue.
Let it go, Kidd.
Drop it.
Retrieving the branch from the weak, warm soil, he began to pace about with it once more. “Y'know, a loyal Englishman would report yer presence 'ere to the nearest British authority. What brings y'near such hostile waters, besides passin’ through?"
Pipe was pulled from lips, a singular digit moistened by saliva used to extinguish as a final huff of smoke was blown, winds brushing the cloud against a freckled visage. In the opposing hand, as the object was tucked soundly away, a firm grasp held a bottle not of rum, but rather, wine. Much preferable a substance. An inclination of her head, golden curls tossing themselves back with the motion, and a heavy swig was taken, a short dribble escaping the corner of her mouth.
——And a hitch, peaceful consumption interrupted, causing a premature ending to her drink. A crinkle formed in her nose, wiping the stray bead of scarlet liquid from her jaw with a short swipe of her coat’s sleeve. “Baiser tous.“ An utterance lined with irritation, though impossible to be heard beyond a short distance.
It was as she turned she caught sight of the imposing party — a lad, quite young as although he were weathered by time, the boy could not possibly be older than 20. Not with a face such as his, and most certainly not with that voice. A brief swish, hair thrown from concealing positioning that hindered vision, posture straightening as body was turned to meet the other in full.
“Aye — what of it? ‘ave you not seen a damned ‘ead of curls before, boy?”
Ears shifted curiously at the nearly familiar foreign muttering, a distant cousin language to one he was accustomed to but separated from for quite a few years, now. No, that certainly wasn’t Dutch; not even German. Most likely, those words were French; he had heard some French before, quite long ago. The Netherlands had a way of forming a vacuum, sucking in individuals and their personal dialects from all around it.
He paused, not sure if he should question the Francophone. Shrugging after a few quiet moments, Kidd let it slide; instead, he wished to address her more easily comprehensible inquiries.
”…Sure I ‘ave. Just haven’t seen many women 'round here lettin’ them flow freely; the few that do are workin’ the taverns.“ The stick he had been playing with was dug into the grassy sand, left to stand freely once his small hands released it of it’s imprisonment.
”—…Or far worse.“ A fate and very idea that made him shudder; he’d never wish that on himself. Being a man made that path far easier to avoid. Pacing about the shifting soils, Kidd wondered where exactly he was going with this conversation; it wasn’t well planned from the start.
”…The name’s James Kidd, lass. It’s nice ta meet ya… What d'ya do round here?“
—A single swish with the stick in hand as he paced through the low grasses; attacking the higher strands with the makeshift weapons, and Kidd was fairly certain he had lost track of what he intended to be doing. Pausing, ceasing his impatient steps, the pieces fell back in place; he had been looking for someone. A very particular someone, in fact; someone who needed a long-overdue chewing out.
A few choice words would do the job, most likely; the only major concern he harbored was finding that individual. Oh, yes–that’d be the fun part, tracking this idiot down. Meandering towards a low-hanging palm to take a seat and begin planning the complex operation, tapping the stick against the trunk as he plotted.
The diabolical planning met a single interruption, however; an unusual streak of yellow hair. There was only one person in his acquaintance with such a trait–and that individual was the very same Kidd was planning to tear a new hole in. Eyes focusing, and a few inferences from figure alone could tell him they were not one in the same—he still felt the need to investigate. She certainly didn’t look like any old barmaid.
