He removed his sweat-stained tunic and tossed it to one side.
Calling for water, he was handed a mug which he proceeded to upturn over his head. He shook fiercely, droplets flying off his black beard. A bleeding man was being hauled away by his upset compatriots.
In his right hand, Murdock held his sabre, which bore the blood of the loser that was being taken away.
"Come on then! Which one of you wine-drinking sons of hairy-pitted whores thinks you can best me!" He called out to the crowd, his once upright English accent mutated into something more crude. It had started out as a way to blend in with the pirate crews, an awkward charade. It had not taken long for it to stick, and Murdock had found his new voice.
The drunkards surrounding him looked at the man with his years of scars. The most hideous of which was the burn on his chest and back that made the flesh look like gravel, the type of thing that happens when a man is leaping off an exploding ship.
"I will have at you, monsieur!" Came a heavily accented voice of a cocky french man who strode forward with blade in hand. It had a jeweled pommel and a silver cross guard, an officers sabre.
Murdock nodded and urged the man forward. The french man lunged forward in a straight thrust, suddenly turning it into a feint.
It was swiped away by Murdock with an indignant grunt.
The french man changed his footing and came again, with a low jab, which Murdock side-stepped and smacked away with the flat of his sabre, leaving room to make a quick, small incision on the french man's wrist.
With a growl the french man came at him hard, Murdock parried and dodged deftly.
The french man came spinning back only for Murdock to meet him and charge his body weight into the french man's own mass. Murdock grinned before viciously butting his head into the french mans nose. The jarring crunch was heard above the immediate din and the french officer was sent sprawling onto his arse.
The crowd - mainly french - booed and hissed, while a small amount of Martinique natives smiled their discreet approval.
"I've bedded wenches who can suck harder than you swing that toy, you donkey layer. Pay up. I'm hungry and my mouth is dry."
"You cheated! It was a duel of swords, and you struck him down like some bloody pirate," the officers friend spat with disgust.
Murdock raised his sabre to the impertinent man's throat, "Pay up, I tell you, or I'll bloody run you through and be stowed away before you can call a single Gendarme."
The french man scowled, but reached into his coat and tossed a small purse of money to Murdock.
Murdock retrieved his tunic and put his sword away in its scabbard. Unless anyone felt mighty keen to bleed, he would oblige no more duels tonight. He was feeling the first few ales start to wear off and he was eager to re-imbibe himself until he could no longer stand.