Please be seated and have a drink with me, if ye will...

[transitioning from "The Early Post"]

After failing to attract the attention of the be-pistoled Captain of the Luron de Mer--a fight had broken out nearby on the wharf, and by the time she had dodged the reeling and cursing combatants the Captain was nowhere to be seen, and she knew better than to try and board a ship without an invitation--Deoiridh made her way back to the Albatross.

When she had left the inn had been all but deserted, now it was a much livelier place. Men leaned casually against the bar, nodding knowledgeably into mugs of ale clenched tightly in their hands. Others played vociferous games of cards at a nearby table. Two women--probably from the brothel across the way; maybe the owner--Willem was it?--was cannier than he looked; a profit-sharing enterprise with a nearby house of ill repute would not be out of the question--were laughing a little too loudly in the company of a couple of exhausted looking sailors.

She stood uncertainly in the doorway for a moment, before spotting a vacant table, and she tried to move there as inconspicuously as possible. She was more conscious than ever of her appearance, and from the point of view of pure vanity she knew that she appeared to best advantage from a distance and when she wasn't moving. Up close, the best french cosmetics effectively hid most of the scar on the right side of her face, the rest artfully concealed by the fall of her hair. It was impossible, however, to mask the fact that her right eye was glass. Beautifully crafted, certainly, and good enough to convince at a distance, but up close it didn't hold the light with the silky sheen of the real object. And while she was improving with practice and experience--and, oddly enough, keeping her footing with on a rolling and pitching deck had helped a lot--she still could not entirely disguise the fact that she walked with a limp.

Once seated at the table, she managed to catch the eye of the bartender, who made his way over to her.

"Evening, Ma'am, what can I be providing for you? Cook's rustled up a fine black pudding with a passel of Jenny Bread."

"That would be fine, I think. And a mug of your lightest ale, please."

"I be needing to attend to the gentlemen at the bar, with your leave ma'am, so I'll send ye the boy over with the wittals."

"You are too kind, sir."

While waiting for the food to arrive, she looked around and noticed that a table near the door was occupied by the Captain of the Luron de Mer and two other men she didn't recognize. She thought of approaching him, but all three seemed to be in deep converse.

-- Faolán wanders down the street, idly fingering a worn-out patch in his coat. Looking about he notices a sign, The Albatross. He rustles about in a few pockets. Pulling out some coins and looking over them.

Enough fore ale, at least. What I wouldn't giv fore some uisce beatha, though.

-- Sliding the coins back into his pocket, Faolán walked into The Albatross and picked his way about to the bar. Taking a seat, he signaled to the barkeep.

"Ahn ale, please. Go raibh maith agat."

Marinus looks lost in thought for a moment, then begins to speak again.

"Evidence? No, I don't suppose I have any direct proof of what might have happened... In... in any case, if your organization is in need, I would be happy to extend my services for whatever duration you should deem approriate. As for your fair warning about the character of your associates... In my line of work, I've long since lost my sense of propriety."

Marinus thinks of something and laughs softly to himself.

Besides, I haven't really belonged to the deuxieme état for very long!"

After realizing the implications of what he said, he fell silent for a moment, hoping perhaps the man across from him didn't hear it all over the din.

"Then maybe he be alive after all, Monsieur, never loose hope", Jack encouraged. "Ah, the world is a changing' all around us, your flexibiltiy is an asset".

Looking toward the bar, McBain sees Herr von Sanborn sitting quietly. "Speaking o' assets, mon ami, I see our Inspector-General close by. I have some business to attend to with him. Would you excuse me, Monsieur? .

I will keep in close contact with ye in the days ahead. If you need anything, me ship is the Hornet and tied starboard-to at the wharf. There may well be some sharp action soon. I advise you be ready."

-Briefly walks in and oversees the tavern's main room swiftly!-

Mr. McBain i know ye must be pressed for time but i have heard a thing or two about a group 'o likeminded individuals that seek the aid of others as it were.

I know we have not been introduced properly but i am as unfortunate as it may seem rather shorthanded myself at the moment! I have a ship at my as well as your disposal that is currently undergoing repairs 'n refitting and it does not look good!

Well i meant to say that the ship looks good but not the fact that it might take some time before she will be able to set sail. A problem both me and my Flemish friend seem to share, which is why i had to leave rather abrubtly the other night as ye may have noticed...

-He looks around and notices a young lady he had not seen before. She seems to keep her head somewhat tilted downward at all times but is welldressed and a bit out 'o place here. There is also a man present that sits comfortably close to the barkeep drinking some beverage 'o sorts. He is dressed in what appears to be the remains of a naval uniform combined with more regular clothing. Also present a man dressed like a merchant captain toastin' most likely to some bussiness endevour gone sour, for his competition no doubt-

McBain looks up to the man standing now before him and was earlier at the same table. With a smile he begins, "Dutchman, have a seat". Jack extends the chair at his right in invitation while at the same time providing a quick reassuring look toward the Frenchman sitting across the table.

In his soft brogue he continues, "Ye have me at disadvantage, sir. Ye know me name, and I assume the name of this fine Laird you were drinking with earlier, but I know neither yur name nor the nature of yur business on the burning sea."

"I may know of a group like you be askin’", he adds. "What more information can ye give me, its name, its cause? When close ta shore a mariner needs navigate with an eye fer shoals, if ye catch me drift."

A mulatto woman of small stature enters The Albatross and heads straight for the bar.

"Willem, I have the boys around back with bread, cheese, vin ordinaire, sugar and rum per your order, and I could une petite tasse de cafe, s'il vous plait?"

Her English was even more creole in accent than her French; perhaps a bit of brogue to her English, as is common on Haiti. Her bright silks also betrayed her heritage.

Willem looked up a little frazzled. "Mon dieu, LaRouge! Do you have to give me a delivery during the dinner hours?"

"Blame the Bloody Arms, and mercis a Dieu you have a delivery at all. Coffee, s'il vous plait, when you can."

She rested her face in her hands for only a moment.

"Damn! I still smell of their blood. I go wash yes? Do you have a room free, even better?"

Willem held up three fingers. LaRouge nodded and headed up the stairs.

Shaking his head, he set the boy to grind fresh beans from the sack of coffee set aside for LaRouge beneath the counter, and set a pipe of water to boil.

I fully understand Mr. McBain, and i would not have it otherwise for these are dangerous times indeed!

It is a long tale indeed and i will gladly tell you about it someday but for now rest assured that i have in my possesion a letter written by a friend and "believer" i might add!

-Henk blinked slightly with his right eye at the man standin' in front of him, when all of a sudden a young "mureno" woman rushed past him and up the stairs carryin' a faint odour 'o blood sweat and tears, or was it the salty sea air?!-

“Aye, Dutchman, dangerous times, perhaps we will have the leisure to sit an’ trade tales another time, but now I must bid ye and Monsieur Marinus adeau. I have pressing business with others at the Albatross this evening and must be” ………..

Suddenly the door of the Albatross slams open with a loud bang, hitting the serving wench’s elbow causing the full platter of empty mugs and dishes she’s carrying to come crashing to the floor! The cause of the uproar just beginning is a seaman coming barreling through all the while shouting at the top of his lungs…JACK… CAP’N MCBAIN!!…quick, the Hornet's afire…THE HORNET'S AFIRE!!!”

Jack’s chair careens backwards as he jumps up without a word and makes for the door. Bedlam escalates as various seamen follow suit. Fire on board any ship, whether at sea or tied to the wharf, is a mariner’s worst nightmare and an immediate call to action. In the time it takes for the telling of it, the place is vacated of well nigh half its patrons and those behind are left with a somber sense of concern.

[Thread continues at the bottom of "Jack looked over the Hornet"]

-There are no real words that can describe a man's pain, but when Henk heard those dreaded shouts about the Hornet bein' ablaze he saw just that in Jack's eyes! He stood there for a moment unsure what to do or think, as he watched him and several men "abandon" the Albatross with due haste, before she settled down again. He mumbled something to the barkeep about returning later and left, following the commotion outside leadin' to the docks!-

[Thread continues at the bottom of "Jack looked over the Hornet"]

Just as Benoit was nearing the end of his mug and wondering to himself how he ended up drinking ale and comming to the conlusing that Ol' Willem pulled a fast one on him just to see if he could get away with it, there was a crash at the door and the shaken sailor at the entrance declared any captain's worst nightmare, FIRE!

The free traders heart sank at that moment, it all seemed too familiar. The world seemed to slow down at that moment, as if to give him all the time he needed to add up the days events and find the connection, the blame, and to put it on his own shoulders.

He was to the door in an instant, his mug carelessly spinning on the floor, he paused and spun around to gage the patrons, to look for any sing of a smirk or malacious intent. He noted nothing out of place from the normal shock, but there were several new faces and one in particualr that stood out as somehow important; somethign he should recall. But the shock of his realization connecting the agry sailor he had chased off earlier and Jack's ship clouded his mind and eventually he could form no other thoughts except that he had to somehow right this wrong.

He raced off.

The news that fire had broken out down on the wharves spread through the tavern like a wind-fueled inferno of its own. There had been no mistaking the people most intimately affected by such news; those who were ship masters had scattered chairs, tables, food and drink in all directions, sprinting for the door, their faces contorted in sheer terror. Such a disaster could mean ruin for any or all of them. Following close behind were a few well dressed men (and one well-dressed woman) that she presumed were merchants (mainly because one hand never strayed far from their purse). Conflagration would mean, for most of them, an inconvenience against which the wisest had hedged their bets, so they moved a little more slowly. After a decent interval the merely curious followed in their wake.

Deoiridh briefly considered whether or not to follow. If the fire were serious, there was little she could do. And if it were really serious, she would be part of a gawping crowd, revelling in the spectacle of the misery of men who had lost everything, men who had precious little else to lose.

The young boy who helped out around the tavern arrived with her food and drink. He shuffled his feet and looked sullen; dropping plate and mug to the table he cast a surreptitious glance at Willem. Willem seemed to have been expecting this.

"I sees what yer thinkin, don't think I was just dumped here by the Almighty like yestermorn's first turd. You can forget about pokin yer nose in the goings on down the wharves. There's an evening's worth of wash to be done, and the slops from upstairs to be tossed out. Jump to it!"

"Va vous faite foutre," muttered the boy under his breath. "Gros piece de la merde."

She smiled in spite of herself, as the boy stumped off toward the kitchen, the very picture of youth thwarted in its endless quest for mayhem and mischief.

She took a couple of bites of the food; it was good, not great, but hot and filling and well-made. Abruptly she pushed the food away, her appetite vanquished by the thought of what was happening on the wharf.

She had the dining room to herself, apart from a sleeping drunk, face-down in a pool of his own vomit. There seemed to be nothing to do but wait. But as the evening's events demonstrated, she was living in a world where events did not wait.

Abruptly she rose from the table and made her way upstairs. She had observed the exchange between Willem and the short, blood-spattered woman. He had held up three fingers and pointed upstairs. She made her way to the third room, finding the door slightly ajar. With a deep breath she knocked forcefully.

"Madame?"

No answer.

"Madame? I apologize for the interruption but I wonder if we could talk."

There was no response to her second inquiry--perhaps the woman was sleeping, or had stepped out for a moment--so Deoiridh turned away, resolved to return later. . .and found herself staring down the barrel of a pistol. The muzzle of the weapon seemed to expand, appearing as large, black and fatal as that of a cannon, so large that she could form no impression of the man holding it for some moments. He said something, but in her mind his words were drowned out by the soft click of the hammer being drawn back. That click, however, brought her back to herself. Looking away from the pistol she discovered that it was being held by the French captain she had gone to see that afternoon. He was accompanied by Willem, who stood to one side, trying to look menacing and authoritative but succeeding only in appearing profoundly nervous, jiggling the large club in his hands. As she looked, the Frenchman produced a second pistol from his breast, cocked and pointed it at her. In a calm voice, he spoke to her in an English almost completely free of accent.

"War creates art, wouldn't you agree?"

Her life had known many terrors, and as a result little suprised her anymore. Some might have concluded they were facing a lunatic, but the man's hand was steady, and his eyes were clear. Without thinking she addressed the man in French.

"Pas du tout, Monsieur. Vous vous trompez."

Perhaps not the smartest thing to say to a man holding a pistol on you. While the words might be her last, she took a grim satisfaction in the fact that even after all this time her presumption had not been beaten out of her.

"La guerre ne fait pas l'art. Peut etre c'est la guerre qui fait les artistes. Mais c'est le passage du temps seulement qui decide si notre ouevre pauvre dans ce monde-ci deviendrait l'art." [1]

She turned her head toward Willem. "Sir, I am at a loss to how to address you in this matter. I took you for an honest man, a man of principle. On your word I ventured to the docks, seeking this very man. Now I see that you were simply setting me up to be robbed. You could not accomplish it then, you are attempting to do so now. Conveniently, the tavern is empty"--here she turned back to the Captain of the Luron de Mer, speaking in English for the moment for William's benefit--"thanks to a "fire" announced by the man I saw you speaking with earlier. All very convenient. Rest assured that I have no intention of gratifying you by screaming or calling for aid. Likewise, I fear that you have been grossly misled as to my financial circumstances. I have but a small amount of money about my person, and no assets in a form that you could touch."

She paused. Willem was shifting nervously and glancing sidelong at the Captain. And the particular character of that unease was suddenly clear to her, and abruptly she was deeply afraid. It was clear that Willem did not know what was going on any more than she did. If the intent was not robbery, what was it? She pressed on regardless.

"Those in the homeland who stand by the character of the Confederacy are men and women of unimpeachable character. I am sorry to see that the same does not appear to hold true of those who espouse the cause in the New World."


[1] "Not at all. You are mistaken. War doesn't make art. Perhaps war makes artists. But it is only the passage of time that determines if our poor works in this world will become art."

[OOC: I'm struggling to remember my French, which I haven't used for some time. Anyone who has a better grasp of the language than I feel free to set me straight on any errors.]

While an objective appraisal of her situation would in no way have warranted such a reaction, as she sat and listened to the Frenchman's indictment--uttered with the peculiar, detached calm that only the genuinely enraged could muster--fit filled her with a profound feeling of relief. When she had feared robbery she knew that she was utterly defenseless. Now that she was accused of something much more serious, she felt oddly relaxed. She barely understood the man's charges, could make little sense of any of the actions he was attributing to her. Not once did his hand stray far from his pistol. People here drew pistols and swords as readily as they blew their noses. She made a mental note that she would have to learn those skills, and learn them fast. If the Frenchman didn't kill her first.

"Monsieur, a moment ago you were keen to discuss the nature and philosophy of art. A favorite subject of mine, although I confess that I don't usually engage in such discussions at the point of a gun. Men of cold reason, in my experience, are apt to maintain there are immutable truths of art, that art looks the same to any and all. Men of passion, however, recognize something very different, that what is art varies a great deal from one man to another.

"So let me tell you how this work of art you have created appears to me. The Confederacy is widely spoken of in the land of my birth; I arranged for formal introductions to the Confederacy's officers through men of unimpeachable character, men in whom you obviously pose little trust if you think they could be so easily deceived by an imposter. I arrive here mere days ago, and discover that there is no sign of the two men I was directed to contact; no one seems to know where they are. Nor is there anyone around who appears willing or able to direct me to any officer of the confederacy. The proprietor finally directs me to contact you at your ship. I make my way down there at considerable personal risk. Not only am I nearly bowled into the harbour by a reeling drunk, but I am put at risk of serious physical injury when I find myself in the middle of a common street brawl. . ."

Her eyes widened. Suddenly, some of the Frenchman's charges began to make sense, and for the first time she began to see herself through his eyes, and was forced to admit that the painting was not an admirable likeness.

"Ah, I see, that was no spur of the moment contratemps. Monsieur you must accept my apologies, I had no idea that the brawl led to any actions against your ship. My only thought was of the danger to myself and I sought to remove myself as soon as possible. And it is true, obviously, that I did not joing the multitude rushing down to the docks when news of the fire broke out. Had I known about the afternoon's events, or been aware that the fire was yet another attack against the Confederacy's interests, my decision might well have been different. But you forget that I have only just arrived here. And you yourself, monsieur, have obviously been away from French society long enough to forget that in the civilized world it is not customary for women of quality to rush unescorted into the night."

She smiled. "I am learning that the ways of that world are not the ways of this one. But such changes come hard to me."

"From your demeanour it seems the Confederacy has suffered a grievous loss this night for which I am profoundly sorry. Since my lot is cast with yours--although your eager hand suggests still that that cast may be of short duration--it is my loss also. But I assure you that I had no hand in anything to do with these heinous actions.

"I propose that we commence our acquaintance again. I am Madame Deoiridh D'Alembert, lately of Inverness, a free woman of property and business seeking to ally my interests with those of the Highland Confederacy. I am afraid, monsieur that you still have the advange of me; I did not catch your name?"

The man remained silent, watching her warily. She felt oddly fatalistic. There was nothing to be gained by trying more desperately to convince him of her innocence; it would probably have the reverse effect. It would be a sad turnabout for her to have survived so much only to perish like this, over such a misunderstanding, but she felt her nerves steady, and her resolve firm. She raised her head and looked him steadily in the eye.

"Monsieur, I see by your expression that you remain convinced that there is more to me than meets the eye. And you are right. We are all of us more than we appear. You, mon ami, have obviously tried very hard to lose your accent, for example, and while I am but newly acquainted with the intricacies of nautical vessels, you may grant a woman the advantage of an eye for organization and appearance and allow her to observe that your own Luron de Mer is the very picture of what a free trading vessel should look like. If you have concrete proof to support your suspicions of me, present it now. Otherwise accept my sincere protests that I know nothing concerning who might be responsible for such a dreadful incendiary assault on both your property and the Confederacy's interests."

Hearing the name commotion above, Wilhelm pauses from his discussion with his agents to think for a moment. Hurriedly giving them their orders to seek the arsonists, he exits the back room and rushes up the stairs to the altercation. At the sound of the oddly familiar name, he approaches the woman.

"Madame D'Alembert? We have been expecting you for some time. I presume you can provide evidence of your identity? Perhaps a letter from a certain person?"


Turning to Benoit,

"If she is who she claims to be, then we need not be suspicious of her. The D'Alembert I've heard tell of is a trusted friend of our good friend. The one we haven't seen since that night a few months ago."


Turning back to the woman,

"I presume if you came here tonight looking for someone then you came prepared to prove it, yes?"



((This has quickly become one of the more convoluted threads I've ever seen. And I like it. I tried to keep consistent with everyone's posts, but if I have any major plotholes, let me know.))

"D-D'Alembert? The hus-" Benoit knew that name if not the face, one he had often referred to as the husband killer when speaking in very exclusive circles. Not that he believed any stories without proof, when you have to keep track of so many it's easier to associate a name with the events that surround it. Due to his surprise he almost blurted out his little name association, but caught himself just in time.

His mind was racing, but there was no means of recovering that could mask the complete blunder in which he had just perpetrated. His shoulders sank a bit and he looked from Wilhelm back to Madame D'Alembert.

His shoulders sank slightly and he removed his hat before bowing low to one knee, "Benoit Bontecou, but please feel free to refer to me as l'ane de cour or any other more foul thing you can think of."

He stood, replaced his hat and looked at Wilhelm, "Your are correct madame, too much time in these seas has removed most of my manners and all sense of what's proper. And although you have no reason to speak to me ever again I beg of you this one thing, simply name the ship you arrived on and then I will leave you in Herr von Somborn's very capable hands and trouble you no more."

It was a lie of course, he would gladly spend a life time convicing this woman he was not the arse she saw before her, but the start of that task would have to come after he's pieced together the real mystery behind the firing of Jack's ship.


[l'ane de cour = The court Donkey]

The long day was finally over. Jack and his crew had managed to tow what was left of their ship out of the traffic lanes and to a quite spot around the bend and out of sight of most views. They pushed and pulled the burnt out hull as far into shore as they could on the high tide. There its charred bones will slowly sink into the surrounding mud and in time be no more.

Now back on the wharf they stood. Wondering what their next steps should be. "Will, Captain Bontecou asked me to meet him at the Albatross, I'm not sure about what. Keep the crew together and do your best ta lift their spirits. Set a small camp on that sand spit we spotted. I'll join you there as soon as I can.

Jack's mind fills with uncertainty as he walks through the village. He knows he has to find another ship until he can get back on his feet. The burning of his Hornet seems so arbitrary.

He opens the door to the Albatross and looks about for the face of his friend. Not here, Jack muses. "Willem, will ye make me some strong black coffee?" He sits at the bar, waiting...

-A man 'o African decent enters The Albatross somewhat nerviously looking around as if looking for someone. His eyes stop when he spottes his "mark" and he slowly moves towards him.-

Capn' McBain? I bring a letter from a mutual friend, the captain 'o the schooner called: Adventure. First please accept his most formal and sincere appologies since he is unable at this time to give you this message in person! It seems that unforseen circumstances have delayed him and prevent him from bein' of service to you or any others in need for the next 6 days or more. All will be explained in this letter i bring you.

-The tall man hands the letter to Jack and gently nods before leaving the tavern-

-The next night the very same "dark" man entered the tavern once more, only this time he looked even more jumpy than the first time his eyes almost wild!-

Master McBain there has been a terrible mistake, on my part i have to admit! Please i beg you not to tell my mast.., *ahum* i mean captain! Captain Owl can be, how do i put this rather ill tempered at times! The letter i delivered to you yesterday was not there, what i am tryin' to say is that "someone" forgot to put it in the envelope before it was sealed! With me i now carry the letter that should explain why captain Owl is absent for the moment.

-He hands the letter to McBain with a slight tremble in his hand and quickly leaves after expressing his regret for the mistake once more.-


Sunday the 6th of januari 1720,


Dear Jack i write you this letter in hopes that ye will receive it in due time. I have been delayed and will be for some time to come, for it seems that my "sponsor" in Europe has fallen on hard times as well! It is yet unsure if i will be able to pay for the outfittin' and repairs of The Adventure and to make things even worse the French have seized her for the moment, common practise if there are issues with dubloons no doubt but i disagree: Pirates damn them all to ...! Sorry about that, there have been so many setbacks as 'o late that my mind gets the better of me from time to time.

Please accept my sincere apologies for the delay but rest assured i will find a way out 'o this predicament i seem to have found myself in right now, i can only pray you will understand!

Sincerely,

Henk Owl...

-The letter apears to be written in haste and is sometimes barely readable-

Jack quickly takes in the message's content. "Hmmm", he thinks. "It will be a while before Henk can join us." It is disappointing news for the Scotsman. Owl's reputation as a bold fighter is well known and the HC attack squadron has been counting on his presence for what lay ahead.

The letter deliverer was almost out the door. "Wait, hold a moment. I have a reply".

Jack thought for a moment then started.


Captain Owl,

Your present difficulties are indeed unfortunate, not only for yourself, but for the cause we share. It seems misfortune is a common companion to us both. I suffered the loss of Hornet just yesterday and am at a loss to assist you as I yearn to do. Bishop Aidan would most likely counsel us both that trials are the Lord's way to prepare us for the challenges that lay ahead.

Keep your spirits up, friend. We both shall prevail.

Regards,

Jack McBain
The Highland Confederacy


"We're both in the same boat it seems", he mumbles to himself as he seals his correspondence and passes it to the messenger. Reaching in his purse he passes him a small coin, "Will you be sure to get this back to Captain Owl?" The dark skinned man bit the coin then nods his head enthusiastically, "aye, sir...that I will!"

Jack returns to his coffee and his dark thoughts.

Before Deoiridh could reply, Willem bowled into the room. "I guess me poor brain musta been a might befuddled, Mister Bontycoo, what with you awaving the pistolry around and all. Rattled me right up, I'll be the first to admit. Else I'd have told you straight out that room 3 is occupied by Madam La Rouge. It's more'n my life's worth to go bowlin in there, I can tell you straight. You be my guest, monsewer, but you'll be singing Hey Highdee Middle with a cutlass up yer arse and no mistake. Now since Mr. von Sanborn has arrived to calm things down a bit, I need to make sure the boy hasn't got himself into any of the best rum."

After Willem had left the room, Deoiridh stood up and approached Benoit. "Monsieur Bontecou and"--with a nod in Wilhelm's direction--"Mr. Sanborn, by the innkeeper's somewhat informal introduction, what you ask is easy enough. I arrived here on Le Soleil De L'Ouest, blown off course and finally making landfall in Biloxi. I then took the packet, Nereiad, here. The ship's manifest will confirm my story. Further, I have here copies of the letter I addressed to Mr. McBane, and my letter of introduction from Duncan Lochartte."

Benoit, was, she noticed, still looking rather abashed.

"Monsieur, rest assured that I do not hold your behavior this evening against you. I understand that events have shaken you deeply. I do request, however, on two kinds satisfaction. First, for the sake of vanity, I insist that you retract your extremely ungallant remark made in the presence of the innkeeper. I believe "frail old lady" was the term you used. While I doubt that I could best you in a straight up fight you will find me more than resilient. I am not in the first flush of youth, it is true, but I sincerely hope I am yet some years away from the grave.

"Secondly, I could not help but noticing your reaction to my name. And unless I am very much mistaken it seems that my name evokes more in your understanding than simple recognition. I do not want my involvement in the Confederacy to begin with a spectre hovering over my head. Therefore I insist, for the sake of practicality that you share with myself and Mr. Von Sanborn what you have heard about me."

"Oh, the Nereiad, I hope that Monsieur Fornier treated you well, he is a big and jolly man, but one can hardly blame him, his family are very accomplished bakers back in Reims. I'm sure you are who you say you are Madame D'Alembert; I am terribly sorry."

"And my comments from before were were spoken to anger you into action that would prove your guilt and carried no truth to them, I assure you I didn't consider them true at the time I spoke them and I don't consider them any more true now that I have discovered your true identity."

He opened the door to leave, but turned back towards her.

"I have a very modest but quaint home here in town, if you are not too busy getting settled in and would allow me a small beginning at trying to redeem my indecorous behavior, I'd be honored to have you for dinner two nights from now."

Benoit glanced at Wilhelm, gave a short nod and then addressed Deoiridh once more. "You don't have to answer me right away."

After one last bow he left the room.

-Out in the main room he found Jack sitting at the bar.

"Jack!" He shook the mans hand and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "I'm glad you made it. I have some, well many, things of interest to tell you."

Jack didn't have a drink in front of him, but Benoit threw a coin on the bar anyway and gestured towards the door.

"I know I promised you a drink, but I'll have to own up to that another time; I think you'd be most interested in meeting someone who happens to be in the hold on the Luron de mer. Lately I've taken to coffee, I'll have Maury make some for us."

Half to himself but loud enough for Jack to hear he said, "I think it could turn out to be a long night."

Holding th door open for his friend he motioned him towards the street.
"And speaking of ships I feel somewhat responsible for yours and I think I can help repay that debt to you; let's talk on the way."