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Shear-Lock told the crew their roles in the upcoming raid – either aboard the Sainte Marie as guards and retinue of a noblewoman fallen on hard times, or aboard the moored Baker to keep an eye on l'Estrade. Two remaining in the Tobago cove were Small and Tonga, the mateloged pair there strictly to guard Gabrielle d'Auffant and her maidservants ("You jacks want a whore, you pay for one on shore like anyone else"; "That goddamn right"); the Comptesse and her maids stopped looking like trapped does at this pledge of protection. Some Scotlands grumbled at not being given the maids, but Tonga's blowpipe demonstration that dropped a gull mid-flight silenced them.
On the Sainte Marie we dressed for the raid in the retinue's livery and soldier's uniforms. Jun took up his own costume, taken directly from d'Auffant's possessions; the lad was still whip-thin and the black dress and widow's veil hid a good number of figure flaws, as well as Jun's dark skin. The raiders practiced marching and presenting arms (not a great difficulty as many of the Brethren were former Navy or other military men).
Shear-lock addressed his decoy. "Master Jun, I think you can approximate an aristocratic woman in mourning."
Some of the Bakers laughed at the notion. But those of us who'd had more contact with Jun – the cook, the bos'n and I, Shear-Lock himself – remained grave-faced.
Jun grinned at the captain and dropped the veil over his head. The black shrouded figure straightened, stiffened, and – and held herself with such contemptuous pride that I barely kept from bowing. A small, perfect step, a soft phrase in aristocractic French, a turn of the head. More than one man looked over at the actual Comptesse standing at the Baker's fo'c'sle to remind their eyes that she was not aboard here, pacing before them. Then the black figure slumped, and Jun flung back the veil to glare at Shear-Lock.
"You will make an admirable Comptesse d'Auffant, Jun-lad. Do your work well, and you may strike one blow upon Milverton." With those words, Shear-Lock strode to the helm to start our voyage to Trinidad – before which, according to his intelligence from l'Estrade and his own calculations, we would be waylaid by the accursed Wasp. Jun straightened again and sallied across the deck to the prow, for all the world like an anxious woman seeking the end of a troubled journey.
Wiggins gaped. "How'd he done that?"
I remembered Shear-Lock's perception of Jun's past, the night he'd come aboard from the Spanish ship – a motherless pauper with a few brains who'd been beaten more than he'd been fed aboard the Octavius as well as the Gloriana. "You learn by observing those around you, Surgeon's Mate. Every port in these waters is a mix of everyone from everywhere. I'd wager my gold hand Jun can also mimic a Jamaican stevedore and a Dutch merchantman, if he needed. Now straighten up, Master Wiggins, and look more like a French soldier. Trinidad is ahead."