The girl pausing in the door way to gather her will and wits might be old enough to wed or bed any portion of the world today, but on the other hadn the little thing might yet have an inch to grow.<br/><br/>She swallowed hard, hoping the ruckus and the dim light would keep her concealed while she gathered her composure.  Then the little thing stepped into the light and strode for the table.  “Handling a twelve pounder is brute work, captain.  Any brawny boy can roll it in and tilt it back, pour in the powder, heave in the ball, and tamp three times.  In a siege, a trigonometry can calculate ideal shots for a gunner, but at sea the gunner needs a good eye and a gut he can trust.”<br/><br/>The girl stopped before the captain and dipped the quill in the ink well.  She leaned forewords to bring her eyes closer too the captain and her cleavage threatened too spill out of her corset.  A double barreled pistol rested at her hip too match the musket across her back, matching her own size.  “Leave your brutes too clean the cannon though, captain, and things begins to go wrong.  Resin builds up in the firing chamber.  The cannon fails to fire.  Or it goes off on a delay.  If the resin gets bad enough in the barel itself, the cannon bucks when it fires and can jump the rail, falling into the sea or rolling across the deck.”<br/><br/>“You need an artisan, captain.  I can maintain your cannons, mend you guns, doctor your crew.  I’ve yet to learn the ways of knots or sails, but put me in your kitchen and you won’t be disappointed, and I’m prepared to fight for you.  So…”<br/><br/>She dipped the quill…<br/><br/>“Do I sign?  Or shall I find someone else who needs my services?”<br/>