The evening sunlight was certainly a spectacle to behold in the Caribbean, the calm picturesque azure seas lighting up spectacularly as the land began to draw its long shadows like daggers of the night. Tropical birds squawked their final farewells of the day before retiring for the night, where the strange humans that called the town they called Nassau home seemed to be at their strangest. The year was 1718 and for three years Nassau had been the heart of the Pirate Republic, although murmurs that the British would actually make us of their claim of the colony of Jamaica and drive them out. Amongst those who would fancy themselves pirates in this free man’s haven was Douglas MacNichols, a man of solid if slight reputation, enjoying the last rays of the Caribbean sun before she retired for the day and the lamplight of the taverns and brothels would light the streets, beckoning lustful men like moths to the flame. Whole most of Trident’s crew, a rambunctious lot, found their sins in the bigger and more frequented taverns or whore houses of the town, MacNichols enjoyed himself with the company of few others on a patio bar with a commanding view of the ocean. Some men drank to forget or to have a spot of fun before the gruelling labour of the voyages ahead. The Scotsman drank to toast another day lived to see another beautiful sunset.

Also, the lack of mutiny to disrupt such serene pleasures.

It was part of why he found himself secluded with men he knew the faces of but not the names, crew from other ships docked in the bay. The crew of Trident, a schooner of ill repute, seemed to be growing more and more outrageous by the day, and with rum’s unspoken properties of forcing a man to speak his mind plainly, more and more of the crew seemed to wish that Captain Brailham found himself disposed of, one way or another. It was the or another that had MacNichols concerned. He had his doubts and disapprovals like any other man, sure, but to wish Brailham dead after so many years of success and opportunity didn’t sit well. Perhaps he was getting old; hell, a man in his late 30s was practically a senior citizen in these parts, and diseases such as scurvy and malaria had yet to come claim the man, but he seemed to be becoming more timid, less brash than he used to be. Far too many lucrative opportunities slipped away, one to many times back to port with nothing to show for it. Perhaps he realized he was a mortal man and wished to live long enough to enjoy his riches. If the crew had their way, however, he’d soon find that time very short indeed.

However, it was a problem for tomorrow, or the day after, or maybe next week or month. What mattered now was watching without count the minutes until the amber orb kissed the horizon a sweet farewell and the rum would find its way into his veins until he had no care in the world, MacNichols decided. It was a shame there wasn’t a good scotch in port; despite the number of Scotsmen that could be found in the West Indies, the British colonies carried an English flavour, much to MacNichol’s displeasure. He sighed and lifted his glass to drink before his eye caught a silhouette in the gas that was impeding the lamp light he had grown accustomed to. He knew just who it was.

“If it isn’t my favorite vulture.” He said, gesturing to the barkeep to bring another glass to his table. “Those sharp eyes of yours always seem to be hunting for me, Mabel. What do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, only half sarcastically.

Her tactic to nearly all things was simple: distance. It was distance that made her chances of getting picked off by a flintlock significantly more favorable. Her distance from the bigger, more bustling taverns kept her out of reach of drunken crewmen's hands and, most important of all, distance from petty squabbles kept her out of the thick of things. Much to her dismay, however, Mabel Agnes Blake found survival necessitating that she approach the center of the latest issue and stab it right in the heart.

She had been following him since she got off the ship. Only a few men lingered aboard the Trident once it slid into port on the cusp of sunset. The skies were saturated by the dissipating sun, its orange emissions mingling curiously with the dense marine. Mabel was on one of the first rowboats to shore, sitting in the middle, not bothering to help the men propel the tiny vessel. There were only three sets of paddles, and even if she wanted to help, she wouldn't be nearly as useful as any of the strapping fellows. She knew women who tried to live in this world she tampered with, the world of men, women who thought they could act like equals. Those women were dead fools now, Mabel told herself often. She knew in the deepest trenches of her marred mind that they were not equals, women and men. Indeed, they were far too different, and sometimes too much the same, to bother comparing. It wasn't a matter of fairness, and it wasn't a matter of virtue. All that counted was survival, and if Mabel could accomplish that whilst enjoying herself from time to time, she'd count herself among the talented.

These were the thoughts curling through her as she stepped out of the boat once come ashore. She lingered at the water's edge a while, waiting for him to get a head start. Hawklike, her eyes followed the Scotsman's shimmying blue coat up the sandy beaches. It was when he reached the beginnings of Nassau's busy streets, that moment when a rare cloud just completed its eclipse of that spilling, frittering sun that Mabel took on the pursuit. Following MacNichols was easy only because of how well she knew Nassau. It had been months since she stepped foot on the place she once called home, and much longer since the time she felt it was such, but places like this hardly changed. The drunken firebrand on the corner of the southernmost street was a fatter man, and the ragtag goons were of a different breed, but they all played the same role. People rarely tried to play a different game. Mabel herself made the attempt once. It was a long time ago, and like most folks, she had the idealism bled out of her. She wasn't about to let that happen again, and so she continued to follow the bouncing hill of grey-black hair.

When the Scotsman perched himself at a patio bar, Mabel allowed herself to give an irritated snarl. While she, too, would rather occupy the quieter corners of Nassau's debauchery venues, it robbed her of the cover of other sailors' rowdiness. There would be no bar brawls, no undulating hollers shaking the building to drown out the conspiracies that would soon slither from Mabel's lips. She'd just have to make do. Mabel watched the man from across the dirt for a while, letting him sit down and get a drink in front of him before approaching. Her boots were worn down significantly, softening the sounds of her approach. She came upon the establishment with the smallness and subtlety of a serpent and, rather than announce her arrival, let the man initiate things himself.

When he called her a vulture, Mabel kept her countenance stoic. Her mind dimly registered the wry humor. She sat herself next to MacNichols, turning the seat around so she'd have to straddle it to face him. She wanted something as a barrier between them, and the back of an ale-stained bar chair was the best she could do. With her forearms lain across the top, she leaned in and said with intended severity, "You'll owe me your life if you're smart about this." The barmaid set down a tankard on the table with a noticeable thud. Mabel leaned back a bit. She wanted to be able to see the Scotsman's reaction.

(Sorry, there might be some errors. Have to go out so I figure I'll just post this.)

Always the cautious one, she was. Mabel espied her goals from a distance, only closing the gap when she was certain to get what she wanted. Right now, she must have thought she had some leverage to pry MacNichols to bend her way. He looked at her above his glass with skeptical green eyes before finishing the glass and setting it down neatly to the side. While she wasn’t exactly a homely woman, the way she carried herself and seemed to be honed down to a razor’s edge from whatever steel there was before was more than a little biting. Even her eyes were the colour of metal, something that could be used as a tool or a deadly instrument, depending on the welder’s intent. Her hunched back didn’t do her favours. The Scotsman wondered what Mabel would have looked like with a regular straight posture, if something so seemingly inconsequential would have changed everything about her and how her life played out. That food for thought would continue at the bottom of the next glass. As of now, there was a more pressing issue to resolve.

“Way I figure it, if you’re speaking of what I think you are, I wouldn’t be in a position to owe you anything if I stayed my present heading and let you scheme with a more gullible lad who might fancy a tumble with you at the expense of being your conspiratorial plaything. A man does not extend his life or fortunes by pulling the captain’s head from the headman’s rope and taking his place, hedging a bet that the headsman wouldn’t kick the block out anyways.” Grabbing the large bottle, he topped up his glass and poured a half glass for the woman at the table. “Aye, I’d be a hell of a sight better than the turnip brains who are shouting their lungs out this moment about how they’d be so fancy in captain regalia and how they plan on taking the place of the man who took them in to begin with. You don’t earn loyalty if everyone sees you as an opportunistic cunt who would drive a blade into a man’s back just to get ahead, because you do that once and everyone wonders when the next time it will be when you unsheathe the blade, and it sure as hell won’t buy you clemency from a man who aims to do the same to you. So, tell me, what exactly makes you look at me like I’m your own personal Jesus and what do you get out of this little scheme of yours?” he asked.

Mabel let the Scotsman's words come, though she grew irritable. He didn't seem particularly worried about keeping his voice down. Figures, coming from a man championing his own loyalty to the Captain Brailham. If anybody heard him, he wouldn't be a threat. The loyal sailors were still considered neutral, but Mabel estimated that in a few days, the mutineers would consider them enemies. The whisperings of mutiny were spreading faster than the French pox in a whorehouse. Her leg started to bounce impatiently as he wore on about the detestable recreancies of their fellow mariners, who were at this present moment most likely drowning their bodies with ale-- at least the ones who weren't the ringleaders of the cankerous mutiny. The Scotsman finished his rather level-voiced tirade, curiously offering the courtesy of pouring her a drink sentences after giving her insults. It was MacNichols's way, it seemed, to be for and against, polite and sharp all at once. It irritated her.

"Got it out of your system, did ya?" Mabel groused, crinkling her eyebrows as she reached for the alcohol. She brought the opaque tankard up to her lips and tilted her head back. She only swallowed the smallest bit of the drink, preferring to merely give the appearance of nonchalance. A bit alcohol wasn't going to send her running into the night, sure, but she was a creature of caution. Setting the cup down, she began to speak in a low, level voice. "Listen here, Scotsman. I'm not what you accuse me of being." At least not today, she thought, figuring it best to keep that concession to herself. "It's because neither of us are much in the mood for mutinying that I'm here. Our Captain's got some enemies aboard, but he's got just as many sailors that're content with his leadership, too." Her hand gestured between the two of them. "You and I, we're what'll tip things in his favor." She didn't pose it as a question, and she didn't need to explain to the man why it was in their best interests to preserve the peace as best as they could. Mabel wasn't one to waste-- or risk-- unnecessary words. She leaned forward again, her cutting eyes trained on the Scotsman's. She looked away only when she heard the thud of a man's boot on the ground. Two sailors sauntered in, one in a long, tattered coat and the other with nothing but an armless shirt and torn trousers. She didn't recognize them; they weren't of the Trident's crew. Mabel quieted herself some more regardless, her voice becoming barely audible rasping. "If we can't soothe some sense into the rambunctious bastards, we make sure the others keep on likin' the captain." Her hand had been gripping the chair's back tightly. "We accomplish that, then if it comes to it--" She eyed the sailors at the bar quickly. Their backs were turned. She discreetly raised a finger and dragged it across her throat. "We should have the more favorable numbers."

MacNichols could see the discomfort on Mabel’s face and body language as he spoke plainly of the events that were unfolding around them. He didn’t particularly care, since any plain fool would have heard the squabblings of the mutinous crew both tonight and the time in port before. The only question remained is if Brailham somehow, miraculously, had no idea of his impending fate. It was something that seemed impossible, and MacNichols simply took it as the man was at a loss of what to do. Being a captain was lonely business, it’s not as if he could consult the other men upon the ship for advice and guidance.

“Goddamn, I hate this.” He said at last, standing up from his seat and grabbing the bottle. “Come on, then. We’ll speak somewhere where word isn’t like to travel.” He said, beaconing the hard-featured woman to follow him. Instead of leading her towards the harbour, he moved further inland to the edge of town. When the crowds seemed to have dissipated enough, he decided to speak, but not before enjoying himself another swig of the bottle. “So I have you figured wrong, do I? By your standards, keeping the status quo seems rather… boring.” He said, looking Mabel in the eyes for the first time since leaving the tavern. Both sailors had found themselves on something of a hill on the outskirts of town, not quite elevated to illuminate them, but it did give a bit of a view to see if anyone were approaching. He shook the bottle in front of him. “If you wanted to be subtle and quiet, why in God’s name did you approach a man who’s been drinking? For someone with a plan, you don’t think very far ahead, do you?” he shook his head irritably, resisting the temptation to drink again. Now was the time to think.

“The only way anyone’s going to win the captain any favour is if he starts taking bounties again and keeping our pockets filled with coin. When’s the last time we struck a ship with anything more valuable than a shipment of timber or sugar? I can’t rightfully recall. Unless you have a plan for what the captain should be doing to get the lads to forgive his meekness, I can’t imagine we can do anything that would make him any less fucked in the days to come. Really, lass, I’m all ears. How do you propose Blake and MacNichols save the day and prevent a bloody mutiny?” he asked, waving his hand theatrically so the woman could take the stage.

Mabel decided not to waste words as response to MacNichols's drinking. She'd jump overboard before she'd figure a pirate would do anything but drink on his time off. She listened to the sailor speak some more, clearly at wit's end about what to do to preserve the peace among the split crew. Mabel crossed her arms tightly, making the overlarge shoulders of her jerkin rise up a bit. She looked out into the busy port they left behind. They didn't have much height over the tops of the slanted, splintered buildings, but something about the distance and the way the nighttime was starting to digest the orange-pink complexion of Nassau made her feel... separated, almost safely so, if only she weren't there because of threats. "I think this is where our meeting place ought to be," she decided, motioning to the nothingness around them. There were no trees here, no brush or buildings or boulders for anyone to hide behind. They were out in the open, impossible to attack without their knowing. Or as close as they could get.

Douglas wanted to know what Mabel's grand plan was. Truthfully, she had expended all she had premeditated by recruiting him. The only reasonable thing she knew to do was to get MacNichols in on the situation. He was honorable enough and well-liked by the crew. It would be futile for Mabel to try to use her own popularity to win anyone over. Douglas, on the other hand, had a chance. She didn't know him to cause problems or for anyone aboard to have any particular issue with him. A likable fellow was what the captain needed, and Mabel needed the captain. Getting on a ship was a strenuous mission for her, not just because she was a woman but because of her ties to the port, specifically her ties to her deceased fence husband. Mabel and Brailham shared a secret about her coming aboard the Trident, and Brailham was one entity she had counted on to keep her out of the crewmen's clutches. It amazed her, really, that Brailham had extended his protection of her for so long; she had feared he might permit, maybe even encourage the crew to abuse her once they were out on the open ocean. It was his loyalty to her that made Mabel count herself a recipient of luck, even in the wake of the devastations that had brought her aboard. The woman knew her chances of survival aboard a ship would splinter away if the captain was usurped, and she wasn't about to go running back to the life of tavern service or wifehood.

She eyed the bottle in MacNichols's rough hands. He was trying to abstain from the liquor. Figuring she'd do them both a favor, she swiped the drink out of his hands and brought it up to her own lips. She hoped taking the nervousness out of her might help her mental acuity some, but mostly she was just looking for some relief from the stress of the prospects at hand. After taking a wash of drink, she dropped her arm to the side, wringing out the neck of the bottle with her anxious fingers. Her other wrist wiped the saliva off her lips, leaving behind one of her characteristic deep-thought grimaces: lips thin and opened lopsidedly, revealing the teeth around her canines. "All I know is we have to walk this right," she grumbled, looking out into the dim opal glow of Nassau, with the moonlight on the impenetrable ocean skittering ashore, blending with the coral burnish of torches and tavern candles. She could hear some whore's fake laugh from all the way out where she stood, and she wondered for the umpteenth time what state the women she had known growing up were in these days. She was as afraid to know as she was to care. With a voice detached like an untied skiff sliding away from shore, she said, "You have to be ready to scrub the mutiny out of the shipboards if it comes to that, Scotsman." Subconsciously, her fingers slithered way up to the handle of her rapier. As if there were some innate core connecting her to it, the touch brought flashes of violence to her mind's eye, iniquities committed by hands that were not her own, hands that she had not seen but rather heard emanating from the hill on which once stood Augustus Blake's estate. She had found the intestinal coils of rope on the doorstep three days later, when she deemed it safe enough to venture out of hiding. It was charred and blood-crispened. Mabel's eyes were rooted to the distant town still, but she seemed to be looking straight into the beast's jaws. Her snarl deformed into something even more misshapen, but somehow made her look less like the bristly serpent she had become and more like the young lady she once pretended to be.

((I swear I was going to wait a few more posts before things got psychological. Or was I? ))

MacNichols grinned when Mabel took the rum bottle from his clutches and drank from it, meaning it this time. “You know, my father always said a partnership wasn’t finalized until both drank on it. I guess that means we’re both in this venture together now.” His expression grew serious and somber immediately afterwards, the man gave Mabel an affirmative, slow nod. “Aye, I’ll be ready to spill a man’s life if it comes to it, but I pray to whichever god is listening that this bloody mutiny doesn’t force my hand.” Like the woman before him, MacNichols’ hand found its way to the worn steel head of his boarding axe, a familiar friend over the past several years. No matter what turmoil he found himself in, he knew it was at least one friend he could depend on.

I promise I’ll get you a new handle after this is done. he thought to the inert weapon at his hip. It had been buried deep in more than one man’s chest before, and it was sure to taste blood more times in the years to come. He looked down at the town, listening to the merriment and revelry filling the air. It was so easy to miss the violent undercurrent beneath it all. “Alright, here’s what we do. I’m going to make the rounds and check on the lads, making sure to make a show of support for the captain, and doing my best to talk down the brash notions of violence when they come up. Seems more than a few need to be reminded that we do things by vote, not by blade. You see if you can muster up some more loyalists through more quiet means and we’ll try to tip the balance away from the instigators.” He said, taking the bottle back from Mabel before drinking again. He let it burn for a few moments longer. He sighed, returning his gaze to his partner and offering the bottle once more. “Look, Mabel. I know you stand to suffer as much indignity as the captain, if not worse, if this all goes wrong. I just want you to know that I’m going to do my damnedest to stand by you if anyone gets any improper ideas. You’ve fought and served as well as any man, and that alone deserves respect. You’re going to remain a part of the crew even if we lose Brailham, I’ll personally make sure that the others understand that. I might have to knock out a few teeth, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.” He said with an apologetic shrug.

((Who knows? :D I like it. She's already a well-defined and believable character.))

There were two things Mabel would not accept: compliments and promises. The pirate's assurances to protect her did nothing to assuage her anxieties about what would happen if Captain Brailham was usurped. Her first reaction was to tell the man to keep his heroic promises to himself, but she held her tongue. It wouldn't do to piss off her one ally. She really needed to work on impulse control. "Thank you," she scraped out awkwardly. The words felt so alien in her mouth; she wondered when the last time she said them was.

She was still resurfacing from her nightmarish phantasms when she motioned toward the town they had left behind and begun walking towards it. Her boots fell heavily on the hill's decline, making her arms swing in a cumbersome way while her hips knocked side to side. A fancier woman would try to make a show of herself when possible. There was also a reason fancier women did not exist in Nassau, Mabel told herself. She kicked up the dirt on the street as she approached the lively pirates' haven. Mabel made sure to stay a few steps in front of MacNichols so as to make it look like they weren't working together. Just loud enough for Douglas and Douglas only to hear her, she said, "Don't get too distracted in here, Scotsman." With that, Mabel took a turn and brought her boot lightly upon the creaking board of a tavern's veranda. The regulars simply called the establishment Bogart's Tavern, on account of the shiny-headed, corpulent man named Bogart who owned it. The insides were dim; Bogart didn't see the point of burning through so many candles if his patrons were going to get drunk and water-visioned regardless. This, and the loud ubiquitous thrumming of stringed instruments, helped Mabel disappear into the places that the sailors could only recognize as blurry shadows. She would let MacNichols take center stage while she perched crow-like in obscurity.

A few minutes went by. Mabel lingered beneath the stairs, listening to the boards groan every time someone went up and down. She held a tankard at her hip, but she had no intention of drinking it; she only purchased the alcohol to shirk Bogart's suspicion. Mabel watched with her narrow grey eyes. The men here were all sailors, judging by their garb and dark skin tanned from weeks at sea with only the moon's sky for shade. The way they drank was a dead giveaway, too. Any sot that lived on Nassau could get a drink any day, but the sailors drank like it was their last chance. For many of them, it would be; rum was rationed on the open ocean and often reserved for remedies of the physical sort, not a man's boredom.

Mabel was in the middle of her observations when a barmaid sidled up to her in a way very familiar to the pirate. Her shoulders shimmied left and right, and her weight transitioned dramatically from one hip to the other. She had a bottle in her hands, hands that were entirely too young and uncalloused to already be in the service of pouring. "Can I refill for ya, m'lady?" The young girl tilted the bottle neck before Mabel could answer. Consequently, Mabel lured her tankard away and gave a sharp look directly into the girl's eyes. "What'ya doin'?" Mabel queried with that irritated, grating voice. She jutted her chin towards her to emphasize her point. "You're workin' in a bar, lassie, not a bloody brothel. Don't pitch what y'ain't sellin', or else you'll just be people ideas." It was meant as advice but, in Mabel's weary fashion, delivered without the slightest hint of compassion. She gave a wave of her cup-holding hand, sending the red-faced woman away. Mabel watched her go. Something distant fussed in the pit of her gut. She brought the cup up to her lips and took a short drink.

She was mumbling to herself about young fools when a familiar sound vibrated through the drumming floors and through the canals of her ears. A year and a half sailing with a one-legged man would make the sound of a wooden prop recognizable to anyone. Jackham, a man she had no love for but could be more at ease around on account of his inhibited mobility, clacked into the bar. He had two other of the Trident's sailors in his wake, and they looked too grave to have the intention of merrymaking in a tavern.

"Don't get too distracted in here, Scotsman." Mabel cautioned MacNichols, whose eyes immediately met with a rather fetching wench serving some tankards to a table of appropriately drunk sailors. “Were it so easy.” He muttered to himself, entering the tavern and finding himself awash in the noise of revelry and the stench of far too much spilled ale and body odor. The dim lighting gave the strong impression of the dying embers of a fire, at odds with the energetic spirit of the establishment. MacNichols found his way to the bar counter and Bogart, the homely Reale-pinching proprietor of the establishment sauntered his way over to the Scotsman, his eyes narrow, like that of a cave creature. MacNichols rolled a coin across his finger tops before letting it fall on the counter. “Whatever the lads are having, Bogart.” He said, turning around while he waited. He caught sight of Reacher and Waylon, two of the more vocal of the crew who seemed in favour of mutiny but not quite decided on whether to act upon it or not. They’d be a good place to start swaying the favour.

MacNichols grabbed his tankard when it was presented with an affirmative nod before strolling over to the table Reacher and Waylon had set up, hunched towards each other as if conspiratorially but speaking far too loudly in their drunken haze to realize about everyone could hear them, even in the loud din of the tavern. The Scotsman sat down heavily on the wooden stool and looked at the two men. Reacher was an Englishman, although none would call him a gentleman. His nose might have been straight once, but after repeated fights and uncountable breaks and fractures, it never healed quite right and was rather crooked, giving the man a very slight nasal tone to his voice. His dark hair and blue eyes were accented by a scarred face and surprisingly nice teeth. Had he not looked like he spent most of his sailing career having his face bashed in by the mast of a ship, he probably would have been quite fetching in polite circles. Fortunately for him, women here could be won over by coin rather than an attractive face- or personality. Waylon, a Welshman, was rather comely in contrast, looking more like a man of royal blood than a gutter rat from some forgotten coastal city in Wales. Brilliant blonde hair and deep green eyes gave the man a rather rich quality that shined in the relative squalor of Nassau, and he was also blessed with a wondrous voice that had all but condemned him to being the Trident’s shanty man, a role he had once filled with such gusto it was impossible to feel like failure was a conceivable possibility, but now took on the quality of a contemptuous funeral dirge.

The Scotsman addressed the men by name. “So, I hear your rumblings still haven’t subsided. It’s getting to the point where you bellyache like you’re Spaniards. You sure you don’t wish to be left in Havana to sign on a ship with a captain whose name you cannot pronounce who dresses like a dandy?” he said, matching their belligerent tones. The glares he got back prompted a smile in return.

“Sod off, you sheep fucker.” Waylon said. Reacher simply glared.

“Of course, I stick their wee legs in my boots so they can’t escape. Still was better looking than the wretched creature you paid for last shore leave.” MacNichols replied, drinking from his tankard. If he had a Reale for every time someone made a sheep shagging joke at his expense, he’d be about to afford a frigate by now.

Neither man laughed. “Brailham’s gone soft, and we’re all going to starve or worse the course we’re heading.” Reacher said, draining his tankard before forcefully returning it to the wet mark on the table that designated its resting place. “I heard we don’t have provisions for more than a week this time out. I’m telling you, the man’s a menace and he needs to go.” He said.

“Aye, it’s true the Captain’s hit us a bit of a drought, but you’ll find that on any crew, and not nearly as many are as long lasted as our own little schooner.” MacNichols pointed out. “In case it failed your notice lads, the Spanish and the British stopped blowing each other out of the water long enough to decide to clean up their little pirate problem. What would you prefer, a Captain who is looking for a way to get around two of the world’s most powerful navies, or one who takes us up against a dedicated 56 cannons on starboard thinking they’re too war weary to waste their precious munitions against a wee ship like ours? I for one, care not for those odds.”

“So our choice is a quick death by cannon fire or a slow death by scurvy, malaria, or dysentery because we can’t get any fucking medicines.” Waylon shot back. MacNichols rolled his eyes, unmoved. “Are you too daft to see we’re done for unless we elect a captain with steel instead of whatever steer is standing at the helm at current?”

“Of course I see we’re in a rough patch, you ninny. What I’m saying is it happens to all crews and instead of causing a mutiny, let’s work together and find Trident some lucrative prey. The Captain’s one man, and you’d be daft fucks to not think he doesn’t realize what’s happening on his ship. It’s sods like you who are keeping him from doing his job and finding us prizes because he feels like he needs to not only watch his damn ship, but his own back.”

“Ain’t our job, MacNichols. That’s the Captain’s problem, it’s his business to find us business, understand?” Reacher said.

“You are aware that there’s other ships out there that successfully run off the concept that if a crewmember hears of something and brings it forth to the captain, that man gets a larger share separate from the rest of the crew, right? Like if the three of us found something together, something our hearty crew can pull off that’s daring, bold, and absolutely profitable, that we can dictate the terms to Brailham. The crew gets half the haul, and then the remaining half gets quartered off between you two, myself, and Brailham, for instance.” MacNichols said. The two men appeared to sober up somewhat, consideration in their eyes. “Let’s say we get leave to spend some time in Havana, under concealment, and happen to overhear of a Spanish treasure galleon moored off of an island nearby that’s waiting for an escort…”

“You know of one?” Reacher asked excitedly.

“No, it’s an example, man.” MacNichols said with exasperation. “But you get my point. Instead of drinking our livers away in Bogart’s shithole, we actually do something about our station before we lose our ship, our crew, and end up as a faceless bastard scrubbing the bottom deck under some rival shit bird’s sails, largely forgotten and lucky if we can afford stale bread. The good thing about Brailham is that he’s always looked after us, given most of us a fair chance when others wouldn’t look twice. There was a time we’d all die for him because he’d never lead us astray. He still hasn’t, so let’s not give up on him just yet.” He said, looking around the tavern. Several familiar faces were definitely looking his way, many of them with favorable expressions. The door caught his eye and lo and behold, it was Pegleg Jackham and two others of the Trident, three of the men he was genuinely concerned about, given how their mutinous words were said with the soberest and sternest of voices. Unlike Waylon or Reacher, who could be swayed over a drink and some form of reason, the grim bastards coming into Bogard’s were certainly a danger to Brailham’s well-being. The Scotsman hoped most of the crew would be behind his logic rather than the daggers of Jackham and his goons.

Mabel harbored a feeling close to envy as she watched the Scotsman negotiate with the two sailors. He made it look so easy, sidling up to the two men with a drink in hand, dodging arguments with them and placating their dissatisfaction with a short conversation. She knew she'd never be able to win that way, and it pissed her off. It seemed Mabel was destined for a life of doing things the hard way. Despite her bitterness, though, Mabel was impressed with the man. She certainly thought she had chosen a good partner for this endeavor, one that complemented her own abilities. Things seemed to be going well until Pegleg and his two fellows clacked in. She felt the tension expand instantaneously, even amidst the merry clamor of the tavern and the comfortable semi-content MacNichols had just instilled in the crew. Jackham had his hands on his hips and elbows fanned out to give him the appearance of a stout diamond. With that characteristic hunkering walk of his, he made his way over to the stairs. Mabel leaned farther into the wall, hiding deeper in the shadows under the staircase so as to hide from the trio's sight. She wasn't entirely sure if they saw her or not, especially since they seemed rather unblemished by alcohol this evening.

She listened to all three of them go up the stairs. They hadn't bothered to stop at the bar or pat some of the other patrons on the backs before going; clearly they had some pressing purpose upstairs. Mabel's eyes went to Bogart, who was dispensing a drink into someone's tankard behind the bar. His eyes were daggerlike on the three Trident sailors ascending the stairs, but he held his tongue. The observation was subtle, but for Mabel, an internal lookout was screaming out an alarm. Bogart had to know what Jackham and the others were doing upstairs, and he had to be involved in it somehow if he wasn't barking at them to "order a damn drink if ye goin' ta loiter 'round here." Something was wrong. Mabel made brief eye contact with the Scotsman across the floor. She didn't bother to nod or gesture or go whisper something to him; he'd know where she'd be. She waited a few seconds before setting her drink down, then tip-toed upstairs. She walked gently on the edge of each step, knowing that was where the boards were least likely to creak. Once she was up top and saw no one around, she moved snakelike across the hall. There were two rooms on either side, but only one had a door. Someone hadn't bothered to replace the missing doorknob, it seemed, so Mabel had an easy orifice for eavesdropping. She did a quick scan of the upstairs and found that no one else but her and the three sailors were up here. Couldn't ask for better chances, Mabel noted gratefully. She slithered into the room adjacent to the closed-off one where she assumed Jackham and the others to be and tucked herself into a corner between an open window and a broad dresser. She could jump out the window, slide down the veranda's roof, and beat hell across the road if she absolutely had to escape. At that point, though, her clandestine operation would be entirely sabotaged. She quieted her breathing and focused on her hearing.

She heard two voices mostly. They were talking loudly only to hear each other over the clamor below them, but Mabel could hardly make out what they were saying. One of the voices was slightly louder, or closer, than the other. "Don't listen to that Jafferty twat," someone gruffly barked. "Man's got a pea-sized brain. Why would we pitch in for the Crookeds when we can just do the work ourselves? Don't the man realize we're here because Brailham ain't puttin' enough money in our pockets?" Mabel knew the Crookeds to be the strange, anomic group of mercenaries that lived more so in the wilderness of Nassau than in the port. People usually only hired them for odd jobs, and no one was quite sure what their purpose or existence were like. They had become surrounded by more and more wild fables as they became increasingly obscure. "Honestly," the same voice pressed on, "I don't know what's wrong with that guy. Everything that comes outta his mouth is just plain moronic."

Another voice came in. "Alright, drop it, man. Let's move on to the..." His voice faded out for a few words. "At land, or at sea? How's this going to go?"

"I say at sea," the third voice entered, previously unheard. "Too many witnesses at land, whether we're in port or ashore some stranded isle."

"But if we do this at sea and don't have the numbers, there's no escape for us," Jackham pointed out. A silence lapsed among them. Mabel pressed herself into the wall more to make sure she wasn't missing anything.

"What's that sheep-shagger doing down there?" one of them asked suddenly. "I got a weird feeling coming in. We might have to keep an eye on that one."

At that moment, Mabel was yanked out of her eavesdropping by the sound of someone's feet coming up the stairs. She held her breath and squeezed as far back as she could, hoping to whoever that she would not be seen. Someone walked down the hall and knocked on the door without bothering to check for any spies in the other rooms. Amateurs, Mabel thought with amusement and great relief. But then she heard the newcomer, who might have sounded like Bogart, clap his hands together and say, "Come on, boys, let's go." Mabel wasn't sure she could evade so many people. She didn't want to push her luck, but her only way out was risky in a different way. Her reflexes spurred her into immediate motion. Without hesitation, she ducked under the glass of the open window and emerged out onto the slanted roof. Fortunately, it was dark out; she had a chance of not being identified. She scooted herself off the edge of the veranda's covering and landed heavily on the dirt road outside. She didn't want to risk going back inside to get MacNichols, so she took off at a sharp pace, hoping the Scotsman would think to meet her back at the hill sometime.

MacNichols watched Mabel follow Jackham and his goons up the stairwell discretely with silent horror; what the bloody hell was that woman doing?! He turned his attention to his two compatriots, listening absent-mindedly as they spoke in hushed, excited tones about what could be, fortunately in a tone suggesting something other than lynching Brailham. He tried to keep his composure but he grew impatient, uncertain if Mabel was marching up to her death – or worse. He bounced his knee up and down and drank entirely too fast to be smart as he waited for a sign. The fact no skirmish was heard from above was a sign that things weren’t amiss.

Or so he hoped.

When the three suspicious Trident crewmembers sauntered down the stairs once more sometime later, MacNichols took their lack of change in disposition as a good sign Mabel wasn’t caught snooping. They came to the tavern with the intention of gauging the crew’s intent and swaying it, something the Scotsman figured had been accomplished enough for one night. When he didn’t see her come downstairs, he silently prayed she snuck out a window instead of…

No, best not to think of that. he chided himself. He finished his drink and bid his companions farewell, and their response to his leaving was much warmer than when he first approached. At least that was accomplished well. He felt the alcohol taking hold, his steps were less even and his head was spinning somewhat. Looking around, he decided to try his luck at the meeting spot by the hill. With luck, Mabel would be waiting there with a juicy piece of news. He had to hope that; otherwise, was it his fault if she met a horrid fate? No. That would be on her. He couldn’t control Mabel’s actions any more than a man could stop a hurricane from rolling in. He set up the streets, shrouded in darkness, and headed to the outskirts of town.

Arriving at the hill once more, MacNichols didn’t sight Mabel, which in itself wasn’t unexpected but it was still a bit disconcerting. Suddenly, the need to take a piss took hold, the drinks of the evening having run their course. Hurrying over to a tree, he unfastened his trousers to release himself and enjoyed the immediate relief as he pissed on the trunk with a relieved sigh. He was definitely too drunk for this subterfuge business, he decided.

Mabel tried to ignore the dull sting in her ankles. She made a somewhat awkward landing from the veranda roof, but fortunately she wasn't in too much pain to keep her from moving quickly towards the hill. Night had completely taken over, casting an ominous velveteen sheet over the world. She could see slivers of the sea between the silhouettes of buildings, and she was reminded of how black and abyssal the open waters seemed when the moon was scarce. She remembered her first dip in the crow's nest, just a few weeks into her coming aboard the Trident. Looking out around herself and seeing nothing but this monstrous expanse of hungry dark liquid with only a sliver of ship beneath her feet, she had never felt so terrified. And so exhilarated.

Fortunate smiled upon Mabel, it seemed, when she made it to the outskirts of town without any commotion. The last dozen or so yards she checked over her shoulder frequently to make sure no one was tailing her, and it seemed she was in the clear. When she saw the figure of a man on the hill, she let out a sigh of relief. So MacNichols had at least a short-term memory. Even this could be reassuring, though Mabel put very little stock in it. As she approached, her eyes adjusted to notice how he stood with his legs apart, shoulders hunched, hands close to his body, and she realized he was taking a piss. She didn't care, so she marched right up the hill and called out to him. "MacNichols." He had a floundering sort of stance now, an unsteadiness that everyone could recognize as drunkenness. "Oh, piss, mate!" she snarled, fingers twisting into claws that jabbed once at the air. "You gotten yourself drunk?!" There was a bottle by his feet. Though it stood upright, it was balanced precariously on the curve of the hill. Mable stamped over and delivered a swift and angry kick to the base of the bottle, catapulting it several feet away from them. It landed on its neck, tumbled over, and all the brown drink inside burbled out into the grass. "Dammit, MacNichols, I need you sharp. You're in danger, y'know." She shifted her weight onto her back foot and crossed her arms, peering sharply at the Scotsman under the brim of her hat. Her jaw was set to the side, but there was no metallic glint visible in her eyes; she could only get so mad at a pirate for overdrinking.

“Ugh, not so loudly, lass… Just because I call you vulture doesn’t mean you have to screech like one.” MacNichols protested groggily, finishing his business as he watched the bottle roll ahead, spilling its precious cargo into the long grass after landing with a muffled thud. “I’m fine, and you owe me a drink.” He said, shaking himself clean before fastening his trousers. The Scotsman turned to the furious woman, her bird-like features glaring in the dark of the night. He crossed his arms in turn, staring back. I can be standoffish too, you uppity wench. he thought, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know if it escaped your notice, but I had been well on my way to getting right tipsy when you approached me, and then you want me to socialize in a tavern full of the lads to convince them not to up and murder our beloved captain.” He leaned forward, eyes defiant. Despite his intoxication, he wasn’t slurring his words, lending credence to him not being nearly as bad off as he looked. “You expect that lot to listen to me if I’m stone sober? Know who stuck out like a knife in the wall in a room full of drunk pricks? Pegleg Jackham and his boys. They’re the reason I noticed you slipped on up behind them like a madwoman.” He sighed, his head slowly shaking. “I’m in danger, am I? I suppose you heard something you weren’t supposed to, then.”

(("Just because I call you vulture doesn’t mean you have to screech like one." I DIED LAUGHING.))

Mabel listened to Douglas's justifications, and while she begrudgingly admitted to herself that he had a point, she was not consoled. "Fucks, whatever," she groaned, disentangling one hand from her crossed arms to swat the matter away. Her lips smeared together in a pouty, disgruntled way for a moment. MacNichol's vulture jokes were not the first time her countenance-- or appearance, rather-- were attacked, but it did get tiresome at times. She adjusted the brim of her hat, which had gone askew during her escape from Bogart's tavern, and reviewed the fragments of information she garnered. In the game of espionage, it is always best to know to trust one's ears. Still, Mabel couldn't help but worry that she had heard things wrong, that the information she was about to relay to her partner in this sensitive endeavor was not accurate.

"What I heard... What it sounded like was three men plotting the takeover. Jackham, Pillsy, and Marco. You saw 'em." Her hand wound around the handle of her weapon. "They're debating whether to grab hold when we're out at sea or ashore somewheres, and they're smart enough to know the advantages and disadvantages of both. Jafferty's in on this scheme, too, that craven sonuvabitch." Jafferty was, perhaps, the only person aboard the Trident that Mabel never gave a second glance. Of all the pirates she had ever known, Jafferty was the least threatening. He was the ship's cook. He had been accused of hiding in the kitchens during a raid more than once, and he gossiped worse than the faux-ladies Mabel had known, for a short time, after marrying into the Blakes. "One of 'em was saying-- Pillsy, probably, since I didn't hear Marco's accent-- was saying that Jafferty wanted to hire the Crookeds to take care of things for 'em. They shut the idea up pretty swift."

Now came the part with Douglas. She rested her hands on her hips and regarded the Scotsman with her eyes this time; previously she had been shifting her gaze left and right around them to be sure no one was eavesdropping. "They're suspicious of you, Scotsman. I don't think they know why yet, but they got a feeling. Probably from walking into Bogart's and seeing you contenting all the other sailors?" she suggested. She shrugged. Mabel wasn't quite sure why anyone would be suspicious of MacNichols. It was her understanding that he was a generally well-loved sailor with an aversion to squabbling. Perhaps I'm missing something, Mabel wondered, beginning to gnaw the inside of her lip. Still, she had to make sure her only partner in this wasn't going to be dropped. "So what're you going to do about it?" There wasn't exactly a compassionate concern in her voice. It was more like the edge to a gambler's groan when they've got too much money resting on inauspicious cards.