[I] "Don't get too distracted in here, Scotsman."[/I] 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 [I]Trident’s[/I] 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 [I]Trident[/I] 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 [I]Trident[/I], 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.