The flag whipped above as he worked to keep her from rolling.
“Starboard! Starboard, you rosewater bastard!”
Effingham, a sour, reptilian man, his snout pressed up nearly to his forehead, was caught haplessly in a beam sea. Had he not found Agatha that afternoon, her nubile figure writhing for him in his quarters, he would have undoubtedly steered clear of the squall.
Straining to meet the captain’s calls, he watched breathlessly as Agatha thrust herself overboard. In one fell moment, the foamed lips of the sea enveloped her. “Shit,” he said flatly, releasing the ship to list endlessly to port.