| Now I was ready for the second act of the opera. Mr. Birdsong had warned me to make an indelible impression on the sailors' souls when I came back onto the deck, and this I knew I must do at any cost. As the blood gushed from the quartermaster's wound, I caught a few palmfuls and, with my fingers, and drew figures on my face in the manner of the body painting practiced by the Indians of Hispaniola. A whiff of the blood painted near my nose gave me pause, and I made a quick search for a bottle of rum before proceeding with my plan. Having drunk my fill of my favorite concoction, I went to the captain's closet and dressed in his finest coat, plumed hat, breeches, and high boots. Being a tall girl, his clothes very nearly fit me in length, but were loose. I strapped on a great cutlass, and stuck a brace of pistols in the belt -- after I had drilled a new hole in it with a dagger tip so that I could tighten it to fit my waist. |
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I cast about for other things I could do to complete the effect I was creating, and
cursed my own imagination for its salaciousness when I hit the perfect solution, for
carrying it through brought bile to my throat. I scalped the quartermaster's queue
and hung it from my belt. Then I found a leather thong in a drawer and went back
to the quartermaster and removed what was needed to make the most singular pendant
that ere did hang from a wench's neck. I took time to find a mirror, and studied myself carefully in it. Satisfied, I threw open the cabin door and strutted proudly onto the deck. I saw the sailors' jaws drop as their heads turned in my direction. |
Copyright © Michael B.Stevens, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2005. All rights reserved. Format modified Aug. 2005