Quincy made his appearance at nine o' clock on the dot.
One look and Seychelles knew that this was a man of strategy and intelligence. His garb consisted of a simple, buttoned, navy blue overcoat, quite dissimilar from the flashy blue outerwear the rest of the Frenchmen, France included, seemed to adore, and a plain white scarf tucked into its front. His pants were plain beige, tucked into what used to be white socks; they had been clearly dirtied from Mahé's humid environment. The common bright red, not to mention distracting sash was gone, but the black, buckled shoes remained. His face was ruggedly handsome, however, it was lined with years of what Seychelles could only assume was the stress of holding his world together.
The Commander studied her, as well, and she would not have been able to guess what he thought of her, if her life depended on it, so controlled were his facial features.
He then looked into her eyes and said calmly, "Enchanté."
"Enchanté," she repeated, surprised at the steadiness of her voice. She needed to show this Quincy that she was able to think for herself.
"So," he said quietly, "you are this." He spread his arms to indicate their surroundings.
"Yes, I am. But I want to become a part of that." Seychelles gestured behind him, regarding the settlement that lived in the distance.
He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "And how do you propose I introduce you to my rabid Frenchmen?"
She rolled her eyes and took a step towards him. "Obviously I can't see or be seen by any of your men, Quincy. But I've been watching those British ships circling my colony these past couple of weeks, and if they decide to come ashore, especially if Britain himself is with them, negotiations would a hell of a lot easier with me around."
She took a breath, surprising even herself at the sense she was making.
Quincy's eyes narrowed when she specified the colony as hers, and closed entirely at the mention of Britain. Every French guy she had met hated England! Albeit, she had only ever met three French people… But still – it was kind of ridiculous.
The Commander opened his eyes and nodded, coming to some sort of decision.
"You're a very wise lady, ma chère. It seems that bumbling idiot, Francis, has apparently managed to teach you something. Come. You will stay with me."
Seychelles exhaled at the sound of that familiar pet name, reined in her emotions, and nodded in turn. She followed him back to the beach; each said not a word to the other. After checking that the coast was clear, he opened the door for her and walked in after.
At least he has some sense of French chivalry…
He closed the door and turned to her, hands folded behind his back.
"May I call you Séchelles?"
She nodded and he continued.
"I have instructed my men to always knock upon entering my cabin, in hopes that one day you would try to contact me. Since this is now the case, refrain from speaking too loudly, and when you hear a knock, you will immediately go to your new hiding place, understood?"
He pointed directly to a large wooden closet, filled with various coats, each long and easy to hide behind. She also noticed his calm, almost-but-not-quite cold tone of voice, devoid of manners, but also lacking hostility. She wasn't sure whether to be angry at him for being so uncaring, or to appreciate his ability to get things done.
He cleared his throat and continued.
"I will be honest with you: this colony has flourished because I am using it as a port for corsairs, or as you would most likely know it, the equivalent of British Privateers. It is not a nice, nor a strictly legal business, but a means to an end. The end is our prosperity. Your prosperity. I had hoped no one would notice, but the damn British have gotten so powerful, they have to ability to fish out the tiniest of dishonesties among the tiniest of islands to seek to take them from their rightful owners."
Seychelles took all of this in greedily, her appetite for knowledge insatiable.
"I doubt the ramifications will be serious; I see no reason why the British would even want to take these islands –"
There came a knock at the door.
The look of utter, comic surprise on the commander's face was so stereotypical of the Frenchmen she had observed in her years here, Seychelles almost burst out laughing. Instead, she slipped silently into the closet, burying herself amidst the heavy coats and waited for what was to come.
The door opened and a red-sashed officer saluted and walked in.
"Commandant, les cons britanniques sont ici! Un homme avec les sourcils immenses veut parler avec toi."
Quincy swore and asked the officer to escort the man to the cabin before closing the door and turning towards Seychelles.
"It's your lucky day, ma chère," his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You get to meet the Empire himself."
She exited the closet and shut its door, wide eyes looking to Quincy for some sort of support.
"I've heard such terrible stories, Monsieur. What's going to happen?"
He inhaled, pausing for an agonizing few seconds before replying, "I really don't know."
There came a single rap on the door.
"Entrez."
"Why the bloody French, Quincy, it's only you and –"
The door shut behind him, awkwardly filling the silence as he first laid his eyes on Seychelles.
He sighed and muttered, "French it is; bloody hell."
As he stepped over the threshold and made his way towards Seychelles, the first thing she noticed (other than his monstrous eyebrows) was the smirk that flashed across his face, so malicious and self-absorbed that she almost quaked in fear of it and its implications. And he didn't stop there. Much to her surprise and horror, and ignoring Quincy's protest, England stalked right up to her and grabbed her shoulder, turning her to face him directly and stared straight into her eyes, a mixture of pleasure, malevolence, and intrigue etched on his face.
"Stop it." She said this in English with as much contempt as she could muster, suddenly remembering France explaining this phrase to her when he was mocking England's accent years back.
"Arthur," Quincy stepped forward.
England squeezed her shoulder before letting go and taking a step back, folding his hands behind his back. She had to admit he looked very official in his dark green tailcoat, pale tan breeches, and knee-high, black leather boots. But those eyebrows…
He laughed a short, clipped 'hah' and spoke to her in French.
"Were you forced to learn those words in multiple languages because France wouldn't stop touching you?"
She blanched and tilted her head to the side.
"No, of course not!" Steeling herself, she added: "he was making fun of you, actually!"
"Tch," England scoffed. "Bloody frog. He will be soon enough, mark my words."
"Now," he said, finally turning towards Quincy, "you're lucky this little whelp of a Nation-to-be happened to show herself at the right time, Commandant. Mr. Newcome is going to be very surprised when I walk out of this door in the little time that I will. This business with the corsairs is, of course, utter nonsense and must be dealt with immediately. You are to surrender to my fleet and to the Commodore. We do not want this unsightly spit of land; it holds no use for us anyways, but we cannot allow you to continue abusing these waterways. What say you to this?"
Quincy had listened with the utmost attention, Seychelles noticed. She had had trouble keeping up with what England had been saying, but the Commander seemed to have an answer waiting for the Empire.
"I shall surrender on the insurance of the safety of my honour and property." He pointedly placed a hand on Seychelles' shoulder, much more comforting than that of England's. "You shall, as you wish, survey the movements of any suspicious foreign ships, and we shall supply any coming vessels, should they be deemed clean by your officers, and remain neutral. It would be suicide to try anything stupid against the entirety of your fleet. That way no one gets hurt, you control the West Indie waterways, and our colony survives. What say you to this?"
The two men regarded each other, both having given very logical speeches.
"Hmph," England sighed and ran a hand through his hair, eyes cast downwards for a few seconds before giving Quincy and appraising look; nothing malicious remained in his gaze, but Seychelles did not fail to notice the complete and total sense of surety never left it.
"I sometimes forget you belong to that sorry excuse for a Nation, Quincy. You are actually able to speak without me wanting to punch you in the face. Thank you for the lovely chin wag."
He pivoted smoothly and walked towards the door. As his hand fell to rest upon the doorknob, he turned once more to face Seychelles.
"It was rather interesting meeting you today, Seychelles. Do give my regards to Francis if you ever see him again. Cheers."
And that was that. No sooner had the door snapped shut behind him, Seychelles had sank to her knees, the accusations against France, the memories concerning him, and the sheer coldness with which England spoke was almost too much to bear.
Quincy immediately helped her up and into a chair across from the closet. He patted her shoulder and made his way over to his desk, grabbing a fresh piece of paper and immediately began to scribble away with his quill.
"…France was right." She muttered to herself, not particularly loudly. "He is cruel."
"When you are faced with the concept of such power, one must become cruel in order to keep it after obtaining it. He used to have a good side to him, if you can believe it. That was before America rebelled against him. I believe he lost all sense of kindness when he could not keep the one thing he truly wanted."
Quincy's response shocked Seychelles, as it reminded her once more of that dream she had (why always this dream?) when England and who she could only assume to be America were drinking tea together. They had seemed to be tense, as if one wrong move could upset a balance that had lasted for years. Was that what had happened? Did this rebellion against England doom any sense of affection left within him?
She sighed and shook her head, still reeling from all of the events that had happened today. And it was only noon.
"I don't suppose you've ever experienced the comfort of a house before, have you?"
Quincy had put the quill down and was looking over at her, a kind expression adorning his face, for which she was grateful.
She shook her head.
"You may stay with me if you wish," Quincy continued. "I have a spare room, and, as much as I'm sure you're used to spending the nights outside, the comfort of a bed after a long day's work is sometimes the best thing one can hope for. And…"
He paused, eyes flicking to the maps and scrolls organized so thoroughly above his desk.
"I can tell you like to learn. There is no way that France would have been able to teach you as much as I've seen you put forward in just the last few hours. I can teach you…whatever you'd like. English will certainly come in handy; there's no doubt that you will need to speak it in the future. That is, of course, if you want to learn. I realize we've only just met."
Seychelles smiled and picked up hair chair, placing it next to the desk and sitting once more. She banished all thoughts of France (where are you?) and England (I hate him) and smiled at the Commander.
"Where do we begin?"
I I I
Years passed. Quincy remained, the colony prospered, and the British ships continued to hover. Seychelles herself had flourished under the mentorship of the Commander; she had successfully learned proper French, spoken and written, and in turn, was able to help Quincy figure out the eccentricities of the French Creole the African slaves were using amongst themselves. She was even well on her way to learning English, practicing every day. It was monstrously difficult, but she had been at it for seven years.
After a while, she even remembered to pull out that old recorder France had given her. It was hardly even playable anymore; the wood had undergone severe wear and tear, and all she was able to do was have Quincy repair the smaller cracks. Maybe one day France would make her a new one…
In a way, however, she was very happy she had Quincy as a teacher. There was no confusing hugs or kisses or flirtatious ventures, and she found she could truly be herself around the man; to simply learn all there was to learn from him. At first she felt guilty, as if she was betraying France in some way. Yet, over time, she quelled those feelings. She hadn't seen France in fifty years…and her colony was growing fast. Of course she would have to find alternate means of contact. It was fine, really.
However, fifty years, she was beginning to realize, was a long time. What would she even say to France if he suddenly appeared one day out of the blue?
She shook her head, and bent once more over her English exercises. It was just one of those things that shouldn't be over-thought. She'd get there when she'd get there.
BOOM!
Seychelles shrieked as an explosion ripped through what must have been some palm trees about twenty feet to the right of the cabin. She dropped to her knees and, perhaps a little unwisely, crawled out the door to see what in the world was happening. Could that explosion have come from a cannon ball? Those things France had told her about so long ago?
She moved swiftly down the beach from cabin to cabin; no one noticed her due to the commotion. As she peeked around the corner of the cabin closest to the beach, another BOOMblasted through her eardrums. She forced herself to watch as one ship (HMS Sybil, she read), flying British colours, circled another ship with French colours. The most recent cannon fire had successfully blown a massive hole into the side of the ship, just to the left of its name, Chiffonne, too high to cause it to sink, but deep enough to cause some serious damage to the inside.
Seychelles could hear the screaming.
Suddenly, another ship appeared, also flying French colours. She could see Quincy, brave Quincy at the helm, shouting orders to the rest of his crew.
But, Seychelles thought, Quincy said that our ships weren't equipped for battle – that they were more for carrying bulk items from one island to the next. How is he going to stop this?
From what she could see, Quincy did not intend on fighting the HMS Sybil. Instead, he waited until the Captain had taken the Chiffonne, before steering his ship right alongside the British warship, anchoring it, and swinging across from deck to deck on a rope attached to the spars, landing squarely on his feet and brushing himself off, all the blink of an eye. Seychelles' admiration for the Frenchman grew.
He met with the British Captain and both men disappeared below deck to negotiate. Seychelles noted the dingy, unkempt appearance of the taken French ship, and how empty it seemed. Where was the crew? The passengers?
She grimaced as she unstuck her fingers from where they had been clinging to the harsh, wooden edge of the cabin. Splinters caked her palms and her hands shook; she gave a soft cry of despair. Her ears rung from the blasts, her mind reeled from the battle that just took place offshore, and her hands stung.
She made her way back to Quincy's cabin; whatever happened was in his power now. There was nothing really that she could do.
So, she sat on her bed and cleaned her hands, picking out each splinter one by one until she heard Quincy walk back in through the door, cursing lightly. Seychelles jumped up and went to meet him, taking his coat and hanging it up for him as he collapsed in a chair and poured himself a cup of water.
"What happened, Jean?"
Quincy, frazzled, brushed a hand through his hair, took a sip of water, and looked up at Seychelles before responding.
"Well, eh, somehow the Chiffonne managed almost to get passed the British blockade, but of course, did not go unnoticed. She was carrying French prisoners, exiled by Napoleon due to La Révolution Française."
He sighed and shook his head.
"Therefore, Seychelles, you must be very careful around these new citizens. I will not deny that we need a growth in population for this colony to continue to prosper, but prisoners, no matter their heritage, know no boundaries. Just watch that you don't cause any trouble with the likes of them, d'accord?"
She nodded, waiting for more details.
"That being said, the British captain, Mr. Adam, is a bit of a dolt. Not only did he let me off for interfering with their fight, but I managed to convince him to let all vessels that leave from Seychelles fly a capitulation flag, so that they can get past the British blockade unharmed, and we can properly supply this island with the resources we need on Mauritius."
Seychelles grinned, amazed.
"Wow, Jean, you really managed to do all that? That's amazing! I know how much we rely on Mauritius, so this safe passage trick is gonna be awesome! I'm really glad you're the Commander of this colony – I dunno what we'd do without you."
Quincy smiled bemusedly at her praise and shook his head slightly.
"I do what I can for the good of the colony, ma chère. And for you as well."
The young woman smiled and stood, brushing the last lingering wooden splinters off of her hands.
"I just don't think I've ever really properly thanked you, Jean. So…thank you."
She smiled, walked over to where Quincy sat and kissed him on the cheek. She laughed at the bamboozled expression on his face, and turned to exit the cabin, feeling like some fresh air. She smiled once more at the delayed 'you're welcome!' that followed her out the door.
AN - here's another!
Translations: Enchanté = it's nice to meet you.
Les cons britanniques sont ici! Un homme avec les sourcils immenses veut parler avec toi =
The British idiots are here! A man with giant eyebrows wants to talk with you.
Entrez = enter and d'accord = okay.
Historical References: Lawlz, Arthur turned up earlier than I thought he would. SO basically, Quincy is charging Corsairs (French Privateers) to resupply at Seychelles, which is how they're getting money. But the British found out and sought out Quincy to explain. Apparently, Quincy did a really good, quick job negotiating, so I figured Seychelles herself would work nicely there, as a reason for the job well done.
This is 1794, just after the American Revolution, so Britain's not so happy.
Seven years have passed, and we're now in 1801, near the end of the French Revolution. The Chiffonne matter happened just like it says in the chapter. The Chiffonne was taken on July 11, 1801 and once again, Quincy managed to be a negotiating bawse. Basically, capitulation means 'surrender.' So Quincy convinced the Brits to let them put surrender flags on their ships to Mauritius, so that the British wouldn't attack them for now reason. This made it a lot easier for the colony to get food and stuff. It was a good thing Quincy did.
Hope you guys are liking it! Where's France, you may be wondering? He'll probably make an appearance very soon. ;)
Stick with me!