So sleepy ...
Dec. 6th, 2010 04:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
essayelI don't know whether it's due to lack of Nanowrimo - because that was a blast. I loved it - or the awfully cold weather, but I can hardly keep my eyes open. I've only managed 2500 words in the past week - I've been hugging the fire and reading while himself watches TV. I've been reacquainting myself with Mary Renault :D
I promise to do better this week. Meanwhile
The vessel was small and sloop rigged and was French, as was to be expected in those waters. She spilled the wind from her sails at the first musket shot. While the Garnet stood off the Africa grappled and the boarding party went aboard. Kit leaned on the gunwale and watched her captain shrug and bow to Griffin. They spoke, laughed and a more gentle rummaging than usual began.
She was a well appointed little vessel – the Eugenie - and Kit was leaning over the gunwale and admiring her lines when he caught sight of something white through one of the tiny windows high in the transom. For a moment he thought he had imagined it then he saw it again – a pale face with a brown hand clapped fast over the mouth and a curve of shoulder.
Wigram had gone on board but was nowhere to be seen on deck.
“Take the tiller,” Kit snapped to Davy Forrest.
To cross to the Eugenie was simple enough and there was only one place where Wigram could be. Kit ignored the surprised shout of Lewis as he pushed past him and darted down the few steps to the cabin.
Sure enough. “You bastard,” he snarled and grabbed Wigram by his belt, still fastened, praise be, and the hair and hauled him off his captive. She was purple in the face by now and drew breath with a great whooping cry then screamed like the crack of doom.
Kit swung Wigram off his feet and threw him out of the cabin and slammed and locked the door. The woman was still screaming but was on her feet and Kit had to duck as she swung Wigram’s discarded pistol in his direction. The pistol went off, punching a hole in the cabin door and filling the room with powdersmoke. Beyond her was a displaced panel in the cabin wall – presumably where she had been hiding until, perhaps, she heard the sound of laughter on deck and thought it safe to come out.
Kit ducked as the pistol swung again, this time clubbing down towards his head. He grabbed it and twisted as the woman brought up her knee.
“Madame, s’il vous plait,” Kit gasped. She was a strong broad shouldered lass with a mass of thick black hair and would probably have been very pretty if she hadn’t been shrieking her intention to claw his lights out.
The cabin door thudded as someone, probably Wigram, kicked it and the woman redoubled her efforts to get free.
“Madame,” Kit said again. “Please – stop hitting me. I am Lieutenant Christopher Penrose of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy and I assure you, you are in no danger.”
“I’ll give you danger,” she squawked, her accent pure Bristol, then as if speaking her mother tongue enabled her to understand what he had said, she took two gasps of air and let out another wail, this time of fright and relief.
The cabin door burst open, the lock shattered by the combined weight of the French captain and Protheroe. They fell into the cabin and both of them, and Griffin who was standing in the doorway, looked astounded to see Kit with the captain’s wife sobbing against his shoulder.
“There he is,” Wigram howled. “Wanted her for hisself, he did.”
“I rather doubt that,” Griffin snarled. “Madame, calm yourself, you are no longer in any danger. Captain, please, go to your lady.”
Kit gave her up to her spouse with relief and rolled his eyes at Protheroe who looked unaccustomedly grim.
“We heard the screams, bach, and thought we’d better come and rescue you,” Protheroe murmured, laying a heavy hand on Kit’s shoulder. “Oh but you’ve done it now, boy. The old man is NOT happy.”
I promise to do better this week. Meanwhile
The vessel was small and sloop rigged and was French, as was to be expected in those waters. She spilled the wind from her sails at the first musket shot. While the Garnet stood off the Africa grappled and the boarding party went aboard. Kit leaned on the gunwale and watched her captain shrug and bow to Griffin. They spoke, laughed and a more gentle rummaging than usual began.
She was a well appointed little vessel – the Eugenie - and Kit was leaning over the gunwale and admiring her lines when he caught sight of something white through one of the tiny windows high in the transom. For a moment he thought he had imagined it then he saw it again – a pale face with a brown hand clapped fast over the mouth and a curve of shoulder.
Wigram had gone on board but was nowhere to be seen on deck.
“Take the tiller,” Kit snapped to Davy Forrest.
To cross to the Eugenie was simple enough and there was only one place where Wigram could be. Kit ignored the surprised shout of Lewis as he pushed past him and darted down the few steps to the cabin.
Sure enough. “You bastard,” he snarled and grabbed Wigram by his belt, still fastened, praise be, and the hair and hauled him off his captive. She was purple in the face by now and drew breath with a great whooping cry then screamed like the crack of doom.
Kit swung Wigram off his feet and threw him out of the cabin and slammed and locked the door. The woman was still screaming but was on her feet and Kit had to duck as she swung Wigram’s discarded pistol in his direction. The pistol went off, punching a hole in the cabin door and filling the room with powdersmoke. Beyond her was a displaced panel in the cabin wall – presumably where she had been hiding until, perhaps, she heard the sound of laughter on deck and thought it safe to come out.
Kit ducked as the pistol swung again, this time clubbing down towards his head. He grabbed it and twisted as the woman brought up her knee.
“Madame, s’il vous plait,” Kit gasped. She was a strong broad shouldered lass with a mass of thick black hair and would probably have been very pretty if she hadn’t been shrieking her intention to claw his lights out.
The cabin door thudded as someone, probably Wigram, kicked it and the woman redoubled her efforts to get free.
“Madame,” Kit said again. “Please – stop hitting me. I am Lieutenant Christopher Penrose of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy and I assure you, you are in no danger.”
“I’ll give you danger,” she squawked, her accent pure Bristol, then as if speaking her mother tongue enabled her to understand what he had said, she took two gasps of air and let out another wail, this time of fright and relief.
The cabin door burst open, the lock shattered by the combined weight of the French captain and Protheroe. They fell into the cabin and both of them, and Griffin who was standing in the doorway, looked astounded to see Kit with the captain’s wife sobbing against his shoulder.
“There he is,” Wigram howled. “Wanted her for hisself, he did.”
“I rather doubt that,” Griffin snarled. “Madame, calm yourself, you are no longer in any danger. Captain, please, go to your lady.”
Kit gave her up to her spouse with relief and rolled his eyes at Protheroe who looked unaccustomedly grim.
“We heard the screams, bach, and thought we’d better come and rescue you,” Protheroe murmured, laying a heavy hand on Kit’s shoulder. “Oh but you’ve done it now, boy. The old man is NOT happy.”