She is talking to Cosette when it happens.
The girl is fascinated with the idea of sword fighting, going so far as to mimic the steps Éponine describes. Cosette finishes when the ship gives a tremendous heave and she stumbles, the hem of her dress ripping beneath her feet. Éponine frowns, and makes a note to request a change of clothes or the lady – something less elaborate than the dress she's been wearing for a week.
Éponine does not have long to think back to the contents of the crates to wonder what would be most suitable, because Courfeyrac pokes his head into the short hallway. "We're boarding," he says, sounding out of breath, and then he disappears again. That would explain the shouts from above.
'Do you have to go?' is what she expects from the girl within the brig. What she gets is, "go on, then."
Éponine pauses. "…what?"
"It would build your cover, wouldn't it? And you said merchant ships carry no heavy arms – and, you want to go, don't you?"
And she does. She's no yearning for danger, but to prove herself?
"Yeah," she says, and then she is shrugging her coat on more tightly, and stands.
"Be careful," comes the voice, softer now.
"…yeah. I will."
She darts away and down the hall, taking the steps two at a time – and grins at what she sees up above. Yes, she can definitely work with that.
She runs into Grantaire as she darts back, aiming for the stairs to further below. She misses him by inches, and he catches her shoulders to keep her from flying off.
"You're going out there?" A nod. "You aren't ready for that."
"There's not many out there, and they all look to be deckhands," she answers. "You do what you were aiming for, and I'll keep 'em busy."
And he grins. "Don't get stabbed."
They run off in opposite directions, and she scurries down the steps. The single lantern hung provides little illumination, but it's enough to spot where Grantaire had placed the swords earlier.
Up again she goes, through the hatch, and into the quiet air – or, mostly quiet, anyway.
The merchant ship is smaller, stouter. There are few bold colors save the flag which speaks of patria, snapping in the wind, but the amount of money poured into its construction is evident in every aspect, despite obvious efforts to hide it.
Surprisingly, those on deck aboard the merchant ship – weary and windswept, each of them – are not furiously forcing their way into the bowels of the lower decks, where she can hear muffled voices and clattering which increases in volume the closer she creeps.
Only one of the four carries a sword, and one holds only a dagger – which could pose a threat to her if thrown, it's true, but the holder is a thin, nervous looking fellow, and he looks to have pilfered it from one of the unconscious men on the deck.
None bear guns.
These are, then, the stragglers, those who came up from below when they realized something was wrong – those who were already on deck when the boarding commenced are likely the ones currently knocked out – but were unable to stop the Amis from going below, where they are, she supposes, dealing with the rest of the merchants and crew.
The Amis would probably do just fine without her help. It's unlikely that these few deckhands are strong enough to break in the doors, or that hey possess the bravado to believe they could take on foes who outnumber them. Even her own sword could be enough to keep her safe, as they will be hesitant to face another experienced pirate, as they would suppose her to be.
She could sneak onboard, likely knock one of them unconscious and dart away before they were ever the wiser. There's hooks in place already, and boards enough that she would not fall.
Éponine creeps closer, over the boards and circling around to the back. It's a good angle, and she doubts that, experienced deckhands though they may or may not be, they would have any hope of running as fast as she, by necessity, can.
Instead, she whistles, loud and long.
She makes a show of leaning on the sword as each, in time, turns – let them think she's got the skill to use it.
"So you think they'd die for you?" she calls, tone conversational. She sees them exchange glances, and she jerks her thumb in the direction of the merchant ship's cabins. "Them in there. You think they'd care if you all got killed?"
They seem more surprised to be addressed without any apparent malice or ploy, and this, she thinks, is what allows her to go on.
"Lucky for you, either way," she continues, "you aren't going to die here. Not unless you try something stupid, but you know better, don't you? Won't get anything more than a bloody nose if you don't stick your neck out for 'em." Some of them cast nervous glances towards their fellow on the deck.
She gives them a moment to process this. "Of course, you'll be paid anyway, won't you? No fool in France would take them on if they didn't follow through."
She grins as this garners her a few slow nods. Ultimately, whether they follow her instructions at all, she'll have a modicum of success here. They're not breaking through the doors to make trouble for the Amis.
Who she is helping only because she can't guarantee this merchant ship would pass so near Paris. Of course.
Her voice hardens. "Because they wouldn't. If that were you in there and them out here? They'd throw down their weapons in an instant. What do you owe them?" The hand she flicks out sharply signifies it: nothing.
This is met by grumbles and murmurs of assent.
Éponine lets a slow smile curve her mouth. This speech-making is addicting. She can see why the marble man is so taken with it. 'I represent the whole world,' she remembers. And even before this, she remembers perfecting the sound of a cough, stepping on wobbling legs towards some well-dressed dandy, 'please, sir, anything to spare for a poor lost girl?' and scurrying back to her father in the shadows, turning over pockets of coins for a rough pat on the head.
And she is her father's daughter. Even when she is telling truths, she weaves them together like lies. She can rouse them to anger, stir their distrust, but –
A shot goes off, and she does not jump, does not let even the smallest measure of panic shine through her face, because that would give it away. Confidence, confidence in all places, and she will make it through even when she has nothing. She tightens her grip, and that is all.
"That seems to be an end to it," she says, and she hopes they don't notice the tightness in her voice, "and wouldn't it be a shame to fight now? One side's won, clear as can be, and all that's left is to sort it out. How about –" Here she takes a step back. "– you let them through, and we'll have no more trouble?"
They have not long to wait.
Combeferre first, and then – Enjolras, one arm around Combeferre's shoulders, face pale and teeth grit, then Grantaire, looking worried.
They come out warily, ready for resistance even as she notes blood dotted along fabric, and stop short when nothing impedes their progress.
Éponine gives them a mock salute. Opposing side or no, this receives scattered chuckles.
'Maybe there is commonality in us,' she thinks wryly, and then dismisses this.
Combeferre, ducking under their captain's arm momentarily, places in the hand of the twitchy man a key, and inclines his head towards where they came from. "Free them as soon as we are off. You'll find them none the worse for wear."
Then, supporting an unhappy Enjolras, they make their way back. Once back aboard, she trails along behind.
She wants to know where she stands now.
It is not serious.
The bullet did not graze him, but the merchant that launched himself in a frenzy, intending to bludgeon with the gun, did the damage.
Not enough to incur real worry – though Joly frets enough that she thinks at first the Amis will soon be left leader-less – but enough to hinder him. His right hand is encased in bloodied bandages, which extend almost to his elbow.
Which leads to this.
"This is the best way to learn about what we believe," he is telling her. He paces across the floor of what she has come to think of as the captain's office, seeming more and more convinced of the idea. Any thoughts she'd had over whether he'd be well enough to continue are long gone, as he sees fit to motion even with his arm covered and padded. Now, he whirls to face her, to emphasize his point. "You said yourself you wanted something to do, and, as I'm sure you've noticed, everyone else has established tasks."
Her fingers flex nervously over her arms, though she does her best to look partially unaffected as she leans against the desk. "Someone else would be a better choice. Anyone else!" Éponine would not say she is desperate, but she is pleading as she attempts to reason. She is so far from the shadows she is used to, now, and if she accepts, she does not know if she can slip out of notice again. "The lady, even – I bet she could."
"And," he adds, resuming his pacing as if he had not heard her, "Courfeyrac tells me you cannot read."
She flushes in indignation. "I can read!" she protests hotly, then falters when he sends her a look. "A little," she amends, and glowers.
"It's a useful skill to have. A good one." He inclines his head, as though the weight of a new thought forces it. "Can you write?"
"I –" And like that, her anger is gone, flitting away into shame. "No," she mutters, lowering her eyes.
"Then I will teach you."
Her mouth clicks shut as she jerks her head back up. Too much protest is, as always dangerous, and would rouse suspicious, and – and –
…and he would teach her to write? To read more than simple, stuttering lines?
"So it's settled, then?" he continues, casting her a glance over her shoulder. "You will write for me?"
She nods slowly, tensed but trying to settle into the idea. "I will."
A/N: Have I mentioned that I don't particularly like writing dialogue? Why, then, I keep making it a necessity is beyond me. Your feedback has been greatly appreciated, and makes me weep in gratitude.