*finishing up me ablutions, I sniff meself, scentin I don't smell near half as bad as I did a moment ago*

"One more bucket, s'il vous plaît, Trissie dear?" I says, and that fine figure of a woman, hoves another bucket of hot water
over me punkin head. "Arrrrrrrrgh, that tis hot."

*stands up'n out of the possing tub, all rinsed off an drippin like a gale sheet, I fling me long hair back n'out of me eyes,
an lo and b'hold what I beheld standin in front of me? a passle of maids, all a gigglin an hoverin about*

Through the haze of steam rolling off'n me fibbery, whilst sportin a jaunty smile, I ask, "What have we here?"

"Well you see, Cap'n sir, me an Violet and Lydia b'took ourselves to the kitchen to fetch thy bref'fas," Evangeline starts.

"Aye, Cap'n sir, then see? we were all a talkin about yamms, and the scullery maids, Abigail, Polly an Sophie
over-hear'd us," Violet says, pointing to each in turn.

"An then, they all asked to whom it twas that we were a fussin over," spoke Lydia

"They explained to us that it was the infamous Cap'n Longbeard," 'splains Abigail.

"The one who has been spinning the tales of adventure and romance?, I aks," pipes Polly.

"The very same, says they," says, Sophie.

"So we the kitchen maids, that is me, Eliza and Charlotte, Cap'n sir, came down with them to see if'n you would be so
pleased to regale us with some more of thy tales," b'spoke Leticia.

"Yes, and and doth thy first mate really have feelings for Remy Teio? Sir, Cap'n, Sir?" squeaks Eliza.

*blink blink*

"And you, young lady? Pray thee tell what thine excuse is to shirk thy labors," asks Beatrise of the last lass.

"Well Matron Bea' I just came down to see if'n the yamms were full, plump and ready for the pickin," confesses Charlotte.
She takes a gander towards me southern longitude, crosses her arms under her breasts, taps her foot, clicks her toungue,
smiles an spouts, "Yes'm Bea' me thinks it's harvest time."

*they all went to a laughin and a gigglin and a harrangin me out of me jacket an shirt, flittin here an there, pushing me
down on some bales of laundry for a seat, breakfast tray on me lap, coffee mug in me hand, pistol braces around me
shoulders, mien hut upon me head, me stockings laid up next to me jacket an shirt to dry, an I left in me breeches. A
grace I shall endeavor to thank the Sea Gods for.*

*drinkin a gulp from the cup,* "Ahh, braciare vitae, the brew of life itself."

*making short work of the fine meal set before me, I tackle the eggs an sopp 'em up with some soft bread, an devour
them fry cakes, only because they were smothered in maple syrup*

Women folk, let me tell you, onest their mind is set, they can perform the twelve labors of Heracles faster than he did. By
the time I done finished me last soppin up, and last swallow of soft bread, they had help't out Trissie, tuckin all the dirty
laundry in them big copper cauldrons, stoked the fire, set half around me bales of laundry an barrels to sit on, fetched
themselves a keg of ale, passin their tankards under the spout till full, took me empty tray, an refilled me coffee cup
before me last swallow hit me gut. I felt like that William gent at the Black Friars playhouse. An audience to my liking.