<div class="floatleft">(https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51JuEU6%2B-lL._SX466_.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Devon Black<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Esperanza, Port Royal<br/><strong>Time &amp; Date</strong>: Day 1 | Morning<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>All<br/><strong>Content:</strong>Arrival<br/><hr/><br/>The<em> Esperanza</em>.<br/><br/>Signing aboard her was like signing aboard a legend, like the<em>Golden Hind </em>or<em>Flying Dutchman</em>.  To actually see the Rose in the flesh was even better.  She was stunning beautiful, both the ship and the captain.  Devon stowed his sea chest and a leather map case against the gunnel, greeted the captain and first mate respectfully and began examining the ship in earnest.<br/><br/>He'd retied three lines before he'd finished his circuit of the lower deck.  The knots hadn't been wrong, they'd just been sloppy and Devon hated sloppy.  Wendel had hated sloppy too.<br/><br/>The<em>Esperanza</em>was a three masted Spanish frigate.  A little bigger and she might have been a galleon.  A hundred feet of wood and brass and iron.  A mile of braided hemp rope.  Thirty odd cannons.  Over a hundred souls, although a handful could handle her if the seas were kind.  Yes, she would be a good choice.<br/><br/>He'd already checked the ropes; the sails were next.  The canvas didn't look new but it certainly wasn't worn.  Bleached by sun and salt, there was little of the original colour to be seen but here and there he found traces.  Yes, she was a fine ship.  The crew?<br/><br/>The captain was a legend.  The first mate was well seasoned.  He'd questioned the man at length as to the ship and his duties, as much as he needed to escape Port Royal, he wanted to choose the right vessel.  His knowledge and even temper had impressed Devon, although Wendel would not have cared for his easy nature.  It was a good thing that it was Devon signing his name at the bottom of the ship's articles.  He'd even read them first.<br/><br/>The sour looking man on the deck was likely the boatswain; Wendel had never met one who wasn't a sadist, so Devon didn't like him just on principle.<br/><br/>The chippy was yellow, something new to both Wendel and Devon.  He'd seen Orientals of course but never served with one.  They had a reputation for being hard working but cowardly.  He'd need to see if this one fell into that category.<br/><br/>There was a sharp shooter aboard or at least that was what he assumed the woman was.  Why else would she bring a long arm onto the ship.  Wendel thought sharpshooter brought an element of dishonesty into the fight; it was hard to blame him, seeing as how he was a prime target as the helmsmen.<br/><br/>The fact that the Quartermaster was going to be black surprised Wendel.  They made sturdy, obedient sailors but it had never occurred to him that they might be taught to read and write.  With so many illiterate people in the world, why would a black man need to know to know how to read?<br/><br/>There was a powder monkey already hard at work ratting.  He barely paid them any mind, except to say "Good lad," as he passed. "Don't let me catch you handing them off to the cook."<br/><br/>He very pointedly stepped over the hungover woman trying to stick to the last of the morning's shade.  He brought his boot down harder than necessary, just to make a little more noise.  The hand on her sword was a comical 'don't tread on me'.  Should she take enough offense to his presence to draw the weapon, she would find herself outmatched.  There was no equal to the Royal Navy's fencing masters.  Wendel would have roused her; Devon left her to the boatswain.<br/><br/>Devon himself was unlikely to stand out in anyone's mind.  His black hair was shoulder length and tied back with a leather thong.  He'd shaved yesterday; Wendel would have been horrified to not shave daily.  He wore a linen shirt over denim pants, tucked into black boots that could have used a polish, something else that would have mortified Wendel.  The cutlass at his hip would have mortified him as well.  It was a plain weapon, purchased second hand and unadorned by as much as a wire wrapped about the hilt.  Wendel would never have worn anything so utilitarian.  Wendel, Devon conceded, had been a pompous pretentious ass.<br/><br/>He approached the first mate and captain.  His groin was being incredibly disrespectful to the captain, by producing an erection attributable entirely to the colour of her hair.  Devon tried to ignore it.  "Good morning, Captain.  Good morning Mr Scott.  Permission to inspect the helm?  And may I inquire, what form of address does the captain prefer?"