Yes, Augustin supposed they were lucky that their arrival hadn't been met by the famous English rainfall, but as the crossing had been inaugurated by more than just a little splashing of water, he supposed it really wouldn't have made that much of a difference should the skies have decided to open up and drench them. But the weather managed, miraculously, to hold during the voyage, and Augustin spent most of the time on deck, eyes intent on the line of blue that gradually rose to become the scraggly coast.
Now, upon hearing his name being called, his eyes swiveled away from their study of the dock and the shipmen efficiently carrying out their tasks, resting now on the figure of one Captain Dupont, the man who'd capably ferried them across from the hotbed that was France to England, where he, supposedly, was seeking sanctuary. A poorly healed bullet wound was the cause of the hollowness to his cheeks and the loss of weight that made his clothes sit ill on his form, but contrary to the story he told Mercedes, that wound had not been one of the factors forcing him to abandon the ideals he'd ascribed to all those years ago -- ideals he still carried firmly in his heart.
"England is teasing us newcomers," he replied as he joined Mercedes, sending one final look at the sky before returning the other man's smile with a quirk of his lips. His English was marked with the same accent borne by so many others, slightly rough from disuse, but certainly fluent enough. "Getting our hopes up, I think is the phrase, non? And I would be honored."