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The Captain's Bath
All is silent and motionless in the Captain's cabin, save the
widening rings of ripples in the soapy water filling the wooden tub
set to one side of the large desk. With a sudden burst, the water's
surface is broken by the crown of a drenched head. Water streams over
closed lids and regal cheeks, and moisture darkened red brown tresses
cling to curving shoulders. Hazel eyes flecked with gold and green snap
open as she continues to rise,
sudsy water cascading over tanned muscles and curves. Cool air brushes
her skin as she steps from the tub. A brief shiver raises goosebumps on
her flesh...bumps quickly smoothed down by a linen towel. She dries her
skin, then applies the towel to her hair, rubbing vigorously until her
hair stands out about her head in a wild auburn halo. She drops the towel
to the floor, reaching for her clothing to ward off the cold, but pauses
as she catches
sight of herself in the full length mirror in the corner of her cabin.
The mirror, securely bolted to the floor, as is the rest of the larger
furniture in the cabin, is one of the few concessions to her vanity.
She turns a bit, eyeing her reflection critically, tensing muscles here
and there to make certain they are not growing weak. A glance at the
wild hair frizzing about her head prompts her to lift her hand to smooth
down the unruly, still moist tresses. She turns her head to the side,
eyeing her reflection, hair forgotten as she touches fingers to the small
half moon scar at her temple, just at her hairline. That was where her
mother's keeper had
left his mark with a backhanded swipe, one of those few times when she
had not been quick enough to get out of his way. His ring had cut into her
skin, and she had been frightened by the blood, and yet too afraid to ask
anyone for help. She'd ended up hiding the wound with her hair, after
having soiled several of her stockings in an attempt to staunch the
flowing blood. But the whorekeeper had been more than repayed for his
unkindness. The memory of that brings a grim smile to her lips.
Her hand drops then to her upper arm, muscles flexing beneath her fingers
before she pauses to draw a fingertip along the thin, white line marring
her skin midway between elbow and shoulder. About two inches in length,
the scar served as a reminder never to let her guard down, especially when
slaves and slavers were involved. That one she had gotten early in her
career, when they had taken a slaving ship that had crossed their path.
Most of the slave ship's crew had been rounded up or
killed in the fighting, and Captain and crew went about the business of
freeing the slaves chained in the hold, and liberating the ship of its
riches. Dorianne had headed straight for the Captain's cabin, in search
of papers and charts that she hoped would lead her to other slavers. What
she found instead was a finely, though scantily dressed girl, chained by
her ankle to the large bed that dominated the cabin. She immediately
moved to free the
girl, bending over the chain to detach it from her ankle. A movement
caught out of the corner of her eye set her reflexes into motion, and it
was only these that kept her from taking a dagger in the heart. Instead,
the slave girl's blade had sliced her arm, leaving the scar that remained
to this day. When the girl had been subdued and the chain unfastened,
two of her crew had dragged her onto the deck while Dorianne pressed bed
linens to her
bleeding arm, following behind. Once on deck, the girl had broken free
and run with a joyful shout to her bound Master. Dorianne shakes her
head in remembrance, as she did that day, watching as they lowered the
slave with the Captain and crew in longboats and set them to drift at sea.
There had been some fine goods acquired from that venture, besides a
lesson in slave behavior. A silver tea set, along with some fine red wine
and several bolts
of both brocades and velvets, as well as some other items long since
traded had found their way onto Dorianne's ship before the slaver's vessel
was sent to the ocean floor.
Then of course there were the almost invisible scars at her wrists, where
those manacles had bit so cruelly into her skin. Her fingers drop to rub
at them, tracing the slight ridges with the sensitive pads of her fingertips.
They served to remind her of her mission...and to fuel her hatred, should
she ever chance to feel it wane. Those memories are forced back into the
darker recesses of her mind.
There would have been more scars, for she had taken worse injuries in her
time at sea, but shortly after that incident with the slave girl they had
taken on a more than competent healer, and those injuries had healed
without scars.
She turns from the mirror and resumes dressing, slipping on those oddly
feminine underthings, white cotton adorned with tiny blue and yellow
flowers, before she straps the triple blade sheath to her arm. As is her
habit, she tests the spring action once the sheath is secured, flicking
her wrist and sending the first of three small blades flying into her hand.
Fingers close about the handle, then loosen and send the blade home with
a motion almost as quick as the one that released it.
She slides the linen shirt over her head and lets its lower ends drop to
the middle of her thighs, while she arranges the laces at its
front for a middle range amount of cleavage, then fastens and straightens
the ruffles at the cuffs. Next she tugs on brightly colored cotton
breeches, tucking
the shirt into the waistband, along with a sheathed blade at her center
back. Sitting down on her bed, she pulls on thick socks, then boots of
brown leather,
fastening criss crossing lacings that go almost to her knee. A pair of
gold buckles adorn the ankle of each boot, along with another set just
below the knee. She slides a large sheathed dagger into the outside of
one boot, and then a smaller one on the inside of the other, and stands.
The heels of the boots lift her a good three inches above her barefoot
height of just 5'4", and she smiles, feeling like a giant.
Pulling on her vest, she tucks another small dagger into the inside pocket,
as well as a small packet of white powder, and a package containing two
small pills. The powder was a sleeping draught, and the pills were fast
acting poison, each kept handy for emergencies. Tucked into the vest
pocket on the other side were a small tinderbox and, for when she carried
her pistol, a small pouch of shot and container of gunpowder. Over the
vest she fastens
her belt, simple and brown, with a gold buckle. From this she suspends
her money pouch and the strap that holds her whip to her side.
This morning, no urgent business pending, she lingers over her toilette,
and lingers also over the past. She finishes
pulling a brush through her unruly waves of drying hair, finally just
letting it fall to her shoulders, and reaches for the small jewelry box
resting atop her dresser. First, she removes a thin, gold chain, from
which dangles an ornate cross, and a tiny jade heart. The heart had been
from dear Thomas, now dead and
gone for many years. He had died honorably, fighting beside her, and her
fingers linger over the smooth stone for a moment, savoring the memories of
the times they had spent together.
The cross had been a gift of gratitude from a
slave that had made his way in the free world. She wore it out of
superstition, more than out of love or belief in a Christian God. She
slips the chain about her neck, closing her eyes as the cold metal and
cool jade make contact with her skin. Once it is clasped, she reaches
into the box again, this time removing a pair of gold hoops, one larger
than the other, and a jade scimitar dangling from a gold
ball. The hoops are placed first, the larger one through the single hole in her left
ear, the smaller through the second hole in her right. The scimitar joins
the smaller hoop in her right ear. Giving her head a shake to let
auburn tresses fall where they may, and to test the feeling of the dangling
earrings, she steps back from the dresser and picks up her hat.
Lately, she'd taken to wearing a scarf tied about her head instead of the
hat. It was better for keeping her hair out of her face when the wind blew,
and it looked rather dashing with her pants. But the hat had always been her
favorite accessory. It marked her position as Captain, and she always stood
a little taller when she wore it. The brown felt tricorn is pinned in three places...one
pin is a magnificent
gold replica of a three masted vessel...another a comical gold parrot with
a red gem for an eye...and the last, a gold framed cameo. At the side
bearing the ship, a bright red feather is pushed between the layers of
felt. She straightens the feather with her fingers, then drops the hat
onto her head, turning to face the full length mirror. Giving her reflection
a wicked wink and a flashing grin, she
tilts the hat at a rakish angle, grabs her coiled whip, and steps out to
face the day.
© 2001 by K. Thornberry |
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