Day 192: As official biographer of pirate captain Morgan Corbye, my passage on the Winged Adventure is not without price. My duties are various and many, for every soul aboard the handsome barque must pull their share of the load. I cannot claim to be a seaman, although I have endured watches in the crow's nest on lookout, the pitching and rolling of the ship more than my stomach could reasonably abide, and I have gone down on my prayer-bones to holystone the decks with the meanest of the lads. I have sat out hours on a coil of rope, arms burning under the sun, fingers engaged in fraying a baggy-wrinkle, that peculiar device which keeps the rigging from chafing. It was my skill at the latter which brought the Captain to ask if I was adept at sewing. Thus it fell out that I became ship's tailor, and though mending of the sails is delegated to more expert hands, I have learned to use a sailmaker's palm to drive a needle through the canvas, repairing breeches and outerwear at need.
That said, among the booty garnered in a recent raid, the Captain discovered several bolts of white muslin, and one evening in her cabin, draped the fabric about her body as I looked on in astonishment. One does not equate Morgan Corbye with the dressmaker's salon. Her posturing was that of the bride-to-be as she brought the soft folds against her breast. "I be thinkin' I wants a smock o' this," she said, "wi' fancywork." Taking up the several yards she had reeled off, she wrapped them untidily around the remainder and threw it without warning into my arms. "Ye're off spud duty fer a fortnight. Get crackin'."
Having taken her measure that same night, the "fancywork" is nearing completion and my respite from potato peeling will be at its end when the garment is assembled. The Captain is keeping close watch on my progress to ensure that I do not prolong this pleasant duty unnecessarily.
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