Humphrey Spencer had donned a tall, brimmed hat, a feather protruding from its beaver band, and his fresh doublet of green taffeta fairly glowed in the lantern's rays. His new thigh-length hose were an immaculate tan and his ruff collar pure silk. A bouquet of perfume hovered about him like an invisible cloud.
Spencer turned and began to pace the deck in distraught agitation, oblivious to his interference as weary seamen worked around him to drag rolls of broadcloth next to the gunwales, stacking them for others to hoist and stow in the pinnace. Then he spotted Hawksworth, and his eyes brightened.
"Captain, at last you're here. Your bosun is an arrant knave, my life on't. He'll not have these rogues stow my chest."
"There's no room in the pinnace for your chest, Spencer."
"But how'm I to conduct affairs 'mongst the Moors without a gentleman's fittings?" He reviewed Hawksworth's leather jerkin and seaboots with disdain.
Before Hawksworth could reply, Elkington was pulling himself erect, wincing at the gout as his eyes blazed. "Spencer, you've enough to do just mindin' the accounts, which thus far you've shown scant aptness for." He turned and spat into the scuppers. "Your father'd have me make you a merchant, but methinks I'd sooner school an ape to sing. 'Tis tradin' we're here for, not to preen like a damn'd coxcomb. Now look to it."
"You'll accompany us, Spencer, as is your charge." Hawksworth walked past the young clerk, headed for the fo'c'sle. "The only 'fittings' you'll need are a sword and musket, which I dearly hope you know enough to use. Now prepare to board."
As Hawksworth passed the mainmast, bosun's mate John
Garway dropped the bundle he was holding and stepped forward, beaming a toothless smile.
"Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n. Might I be havin' a word?"