A few idle seamen swilled their grog and bemoaned the absence of Delight Foley. A marine stood leaning against his musket, his eyes scanning the mists, his thoughts far away. Ian MacDuff was the officer of the watch and, to relieve the boredom, had brought out his bagpipes, much to the dismay of those who happened to be on deck with him. For a short time the pipes had honked and croaked and moaned, until the accompanying curses and protests from his shipmates had sent Ian storming off in high Scottish rage. Now, he stood sulkily beside Skunk on the empty quarterdeck, seeking shelter beneath the dripping tarp that had been rigged against the earlier, drenching rain. Lantern light caught the glimmer of moisture as it trickled down masts and tarred lines, pooled upon booms and yards, and made the decks slippery and treacherous. Skunk pulled his cap down over his grimy forehead and wiped away the moisture with the back of his hand. “Quiet night out there,” he muttered. “Hibbert says the Lord and Master’s still up.”
