I read the last paragraph aloud, smiled, and returned to my writing.
I never really did find any real calm in my life at sea, since there was nary a chance. It didn’t help that Bart was more privateer than saylor, and so was the rest of the crew.
On the first trip out, riding a stiff wind, we turned the corner on France, heading due south. Unknown to me until much later, that night we passed across the wake of a schooner flying the French flag that was carrying a declaration of truce with England. Oh, well, it didn’t negate what was about to happen. We were sayling along smoothly the next day, when Gimp, one of our midshipmen, approached me. His back was rounded, and one of his legs was shorter than the other; hence, he limped, which accounted for his handle. By his gait and posture, I’d have sworn he was in his forties. His face, however, showed him to be barely beyond his teens.
“Oy, boyo, now that you’re a shipmate, there’s some other things ye need to learn.”
“Like what, sir?”
“Like how ta use a knife, and throw it.”
And so, when we got the time in the eve’s when I wasn’t working with the quadrant, he’d teach me how to hold and throw knives. He also taught me how to flick my wrist and position the hilt for more accurate tosses. Once I understood his instruction, I developed a level of proficiency that surprised Gimp as much as it did me, since before I started working with him, I’d never picked up a knife except to peel an apple.
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Genre – Historical Fiction/ Romance
Rating – PG