I am so making things up as I go on this.
“She figured you out right good, didn’t she, skipper?” His first mate Joey the Tourist grinned at him, later. “Knew just how to turn your gears, she did.”
“If you think I’m distractible by a prim-and-proper lass, all smelling of business and enterprise,” Jack grinned back, “well, I am. At least, while we’re in port. It’s good money, though. Hershey credits may not clink, but there’s nothing wrong with how they spend.” He turned and leaned on the low wall overlooking the drydocks. “Besides, it’ll light a fire under these lazy shipworkers’ arses. The Firepot should’ve been out to sea a week ago.” His grumbling was low, because that was nonsense: the work on the Firepot had actually been running on schedule, or close enough to it not to matter. Now the workers swarming on and over it were hopping, fueled by the promise of some Hershey bonus money for a job done quickly, and well.
He certainly thought she deserved it. The Firepot would have been instantly recognizable to any of the shadowy, titanic figures from the Great Age of Buccaneering, who would have called it a fifth-rate true frigate, square-rigged and sleek. Fast enough to run, tough enough to fight: just the sort of vessel to scout out an enemy fleet or hostile shore. Rocca Jack Hwinda would command a lot of ships, in his time, but he always had a soft spot in his heart for this one. It wouldn’t stop him from putting her into harm’s way, though. The ballistae onboard were there for a reason.
“You pull the crew out of the stewpots and opera halls yet?” Jack asked Joey. “The dockmaster says we’ll be ready in three tides.”