The Faithful Bride

[Doyle Smithe]

Ahhhh The Faithful Bride. One of the popular drinking holes along the walkway of the pirate port. There was always a fight being fought, information to be had at a price and lovely ladies to dangle on your knee at the Bride.

As twilight set upon the horizon, numerous sailing vessels of all shapes and sizes bobbed around in the bay like patient tethered horses as the tide drifted out. Every type of flotsam and jetsam imaginable ambled along the docks while they made their way to their favorite watering holes for the evening.

Among the shambling crowd, a small little terrier trotted gaily on his own, weaving his way around a forest of legs and barrels as he headed straight for the Bride. Despite his minute stature, the nine inch scrapper carried a dead rat half his size in his mouth, strutting forth as proud as any peacock. Remmy paused for a moment just outside of the tavern and dropped his catch in front of a pair of scuffed and dirtied boots.

"So what did ya bring me today?" A gruff voice growled as an one-eyed pirate glared down at the small dog with a grizzled expression. Remmy's stub of a tail shot straight up as he growled softly and barked. The man laughed as he nudged the dead rat with his heel, inspecting it. Like the others brought before it, the rat had a broken neck and its hide was not damaged. Even sea rats had their uses on ships and in ports. Some were sold for their meat while the skins were cured and used to make pouches and knife scabbards for those sorry few who could not afford decent leather.

"Next time bring me a bigger one." The man muttered as he reached into a grimy leather pouch that hung from his belt and produced a small silver coin. Remmy's bright brown eyes locked onto the coin and when the man threw it into the air, the little terrier lept straight up and caught it between his teeth before he scurried off into the smoky confines of the tavern.

I'm a son of a sea cook, I'm a cook in a trader
I can dance, I can sing, I can reef the main boom
I can handle a jigger, I cuts a fine figure
Whenever I gets in a boats standing room

We'll rant and we'll roar like true Newfoundlanders
We'll rant and we'll roar on deck and below
Until we strikes bottom inside the two sunkers
When straight through the channel to Toslow we'll go

Doyle's deep rich voice sang out over the chorus of chaotic noise that was a constant at the infamous tavern. He laughed as he ducked a flying mug of grog that was thrown in his direction before he shook his head like a dog and straightened himself on the chair that he was standing on.

"Sing somethin' else!" A half-drunk pirate grumbled as the motley patrons of the Faithful Bride shouted out curses and agreements.

"Yar! Enough about the Newfies!"

"Can't stand that bloody song!"

"Sing about Blackbeard!"

The tavern rang out with various suggestions for random songs, some of which didn't exist. Doyle stood there and waited for the noise to die down slightly before he spoke up.

"I already sang that one twice!" Doyle shouted back as a barmaid waltzed by with a tray of grog held high over her head, as to avoid accidentally knocking into anything. Doyle easily relieved her of one of the pints just as Remmy appeared by the chair legs, stubby tail wagging back and forth with enough force to move the little dog's hind legs at the same time.

"How was today's catch?" Doyle said to the dog as he took a quick swing of grog and jumped off the chair. He knew that talking to a dog was practically a sign of insanity or drunkenness and he also knew he had neither. He was only on his third pint of the evening and he was pretty sure he was sound of mind. However he spoke to the canine out of habit. He had a sneaking suspicion that the bright little scrapper had more brains in him than most men he knew and judging by the way Remmy reacted to what he said, Doyle was convinced that his newfound companion could understand every word that left his mouth.

Remmy stood up on his hind legs and deposited the coin into Doyle's waiting hand. Doyle grinned and bit into the silver piece to make sure it was genuine before he chuckled and scratched Remmy's head.

"I should have met you a long time ago." He said as he lowered his pint and let Remmy take his hard earned share before he took it away and drained the rest of it. The terrier licked his muzzle as he followed Doyle over to a table that was shoved into a dark corner of the tavern. As Doyle unceremoniously unearthed a drunken pirate from his seat, Remmy lept onto a closed barrel of pickled herring that stood near by and sat down at the same time Doyle did.

"Now what'll it be tonight? The fish? Or the stew?" Doyle asked Remmy as he eyed the multitude of colorful characters that walked by his table, searching for on in-particular. Remmy barked twice at the second choice and Doyle nodded. "Good choice."

"Ello Doyle. Won't you sing me a song eh?" A husky female voice purred as a pair of white gloved hands slid along Doyle's broad shoulders from behind. Doyle closed his eyes as a dark-haired wench leaned against him and lowered her made-up face so that she could whisper in his ear.

"I've got to give the old pipes a break now and then Violet." Doyle grinned as he wrapped a strong arm around her wasp waist and slid her into his waiting lap. Violet pouted her painted lips as she wrapped his long, sun-bleached hair around her fingers, giving him a reproachful look.

"Well then why don't we play with a different set of pipes?" She asked slyly as her free hand stroked his chest through the thin linen of his shirt. For all of Doyle's fine attributes he always had a weakness for women. Especially dark-haired women.

"You miss me already?" Doyle asked as he tried to bite her fingers as they traced the two-day old stubble along his jawline.

"Oh you naughty boy." Violet giggled as she snatched her hand away and tapped him on the nose. The flirting would have gone on if it wasn't for a sharp snort from Remmy. Doyle may have a hunger for women but the little dog would not wait to be fed.

"You're right. It'll have to wait Vi." Doyle said as he leaned back in his chair and released his hold on Violet's waist. "I'll see you in a bit." Doyle winked as he withdrew a pretty trinket from the deep pockets of his pants and dangled it in front of Violet's face. The wench's eyes lit up at the sight of the red beaded necklace and she snatched it from his hand as quick as a striking snake.

"You always know how to treat a lady." She purred happily as she pawed her new necklace, pleased by the way it sparkled in the candle light. It was naught but a bit of costume jewelry but it looked real and if she couldn't tell the difference, no one could.

"See you in a bit....you know where I'll be." Violet murmured those last words in his ear as she nibbled on it and gave his thigh a hard squeeze before she stepped away, a coy smile inviting him to much more. But it would have to wait for the time being.

[Abram Tannar]

Not far down the lane from Abram, a boisterous cheer rang up followed by a succession of fired arms. Curiousity aroused, he leaned back from the bazaar stall at which he stood to have a look to see what was about. He glanced just in time to see a blindfolded and bound man, mouth stopped with a cork, lowered into a decrepit old well––head first.

Only in Tortuga, he thought with a slight roll of his eyes. Turning back to the stallkeeper he had been talking with, he picked up where their conversation had briefly broken off. "They won't allow for cinnamon in French ports, you said?"

"Aye, sir," responded the man, gesturing across a waxed strip of leather parchment laid between them. "Among other luxuries... paper, indigo––" The two of them continued to discuss the current market in low voices, raising them only once when two men hoisting hefty whores on their backs and followed by a roaring went racing past.

Eventually, Abram wore the man's knowledge (or patience) dry, for he ended their discussion abruptly by explaining it was time for him to "close shop" for the night. Tossing him a disbelieving smirk, Abram tipped the brim of his tricorn in thanks, and feigned a turn to leave. A covert glance over his shoulder proved that the stallkeep stooped to rummage in the lower stores of his wares, leaving the waxed parchments exposed. Quick as a flash, Abram's fingers snaked out and seized the parchments, stuffing them nonchalantly into the left breast of his vest––all while casually and light-footedly stepping away from the stall. By the time the stallkeep looked up again, he was already well down the lane, arm looped around the waist of a curvacious redhead.

Once around the corner, Abram gave the redhead a charmed smile and a wink, and parted ways with her. While she continued on, the man lingered to absorb the riotous atmosphere around him. From where he stood, the crudely cobbled lane sloped down toward the slimshod harbour, where night was drawing her veil over the far horizon. The waves leapt in a cool hue of blueblack and the shadowed vessels moored amongst them lulled lazily, their banners fluttering colourless in the descending dark.

The scene of the harbour contrasted starkly with that of the lane Abram found himself in; it was lit harshly by a hodgepodge of lamps of every shape, size and hue of glass. Tortuga's nightlife was giddy with mirth all around him, collecting itself in coy curls of the lip, blue wafts of smoke and the drunken whoop.

Just as Abram was about to begin down the lane, a spotty flash darted underfoot. Startled and waving his arms slightly for balance, his eyes were quick to follow the thing he had nearly stepped on. Trotting up the lane was an inmistakeable terrier, his snowy stump of a tail ticking back and forth with the bounce of his stride. An exasperated and knowing expression entered Abram's features––a minglement of a frown and a crooked smile.

Seeing as the stallkeep was not hot on his pursuit––yet––Abram moved forward to weave through throngs of Tortugans, all the while keeping a keen eye on the terrier's bright tail. His bodily size kept him a good distance behind Remmy, but never so far behind that he lost the dog's trail. As he came into an open lane decorated by only a few miserable drunkards, Abram spied where the little knave was headed: the Faithful Bride. Clever mutt, he remarked to himself, with a touch of wonderment.

Upon entering the Faithful Bride, Abram had a split second to duck before a chair was smashed over his head. Wide-eyed, he made a mad dodge forward, was tossed about by some brawlers, before spinning free into the haughty swagger of a barmaid. Excusing himself, but not sparing an appreciative peek down her bust, he pressed on. Not but a few seconds later, he spied who he was looking for:

"Doyle."

Abram's voice was level, and equally level was the gaze he trained on Smithe and his companion. The whore seemed to take the hint and didn't spend too much longer coddling his first mate––a purr and a meow later and she was off to find good business on the other side of the tavern. As she left, Abram's gaze followed her from beneath arched brows, as if he were skeptical as to her being truly enamoured with Smithe.

"Quite the catch there, Doyle," the captain observed, a bemused smirk evident in his tone if not in his expression. While he spoke, he reached over and gave Remmy a rough, albeit fond, scratch behind the ears.

[Doyle Smithe]

Upon hearing his master's name, Remmy's flopped ears perked forward and he yipped in recognition of the Captain. His stub of a tail wagged rapidly back and forth as he was given a good scratch behind the ears, something which he was very fond of aside from belly rubs.

As Remmy was getting his just desserts, Doyle was watching his waltz away in a whirl of lace and violet perfume. A soft, tired sigh escaped him as he brushed his hair away from his face and glanced up at Abram. Using his foot he pushed the chair opposite him away from the table and beckoned Abram to take a seat.

"So what's the word Captain? Are the French goin' to have a tea party like you Yanks put on not too long ago?" Doyle grinned as he leaned back in his chair and patted his leg with his right hand. Remmy shot off the barrel like a white and brown cannonball of fur and landed neatly on Doyle's lap while the pirate stretched his legs and propped them up on the barrel that the little dog had been occupying.

"Oy! Mary!" Doyle boomed as the gray haired tavern wife trooped up from the cellar, carrying a cured hog's leg over her narrow shoulder.

"What ya want!" Mary snapped as she kicked a reeling drunk out of her way as she headed to wards the kitchen. Doyle laughed as he unearthed a heavy coin from somewhere on his person and tossed it at her. Despite the heavy leg of meat she carried, Mary didn't miss a beat. The coin was barely airborne before her brown weathered hand closed around it and stuffed it down her ample yet sagging bosom.

"The usual for me and the Captain here and plenty of it. We starvin' sea folk can't get enough of your fish stew." He grinned as she adjusted the leg and snaked her way over to the table. She was a woman of forty-two but she looked more like sixty-two. The permanent scowl on her face gave her a fierce appearance that did justice to her razored tongue and salty personality.

"Sure ya do, ya great walkin' stomach. Git yer filthy boots off my herring or I'll put it on yer bill. Last thing I need around here is contaminated fish." She snorted as she slapped Doyle's legs and nudged them off the barrel with her hip. Remmy barked as he eyed the salted pork with yearning and old Mary didn't miss a trick. "What did I tell ya about that rat of yours? Out! This isn't a barn. You may have been raised in one but I have me standards."

As she spoke one of the brawling sailors that Abram had the pleasure of running into landed on top of a table covered in bottles and pints and both he and the table went crashing to the ground.

"I can see that." Doyle smiled his most charming smile as Remmy sat stock still, eyes locked onto the meat.

"Bah!" Mary snorted as she turned around and shrieked something very unladylike at the downed pirate. While her back was turned Doyle palmed one of his knives from his boot and quickly leaned forward, shearing off a fair sized morsal from the leg without the tavern wife being none the wiser.

"So how's about that feller you went to see?" Doyle asked as he cleaned the edge of his knife with a handful of his shirt before sheathing it. He bit off a chunk of the salted meat before giving the rest to Remmy who wolfed it down and whined for more.

[Abram Tannar]

"Very informative he was," muttered Abram in a voice dripping with sarcasm as he eased into the seat Doyle kicked out for him. Reaching inside the fold of his waistcoat, he prised the parchments he had stolen from the man and lightly dropped them onto the table. Casting Doyle a small grin across the breadth of the table, he added, "However, we must remind ourselves that we are in Tortuga."

The sheets splayed with the impact: one was a rough outline of an island with an "x" slashed through a hooked shoreline, another was a list with names and ports written. Some of the later had been messily scratched out or had a note inked in beside them. The third sheet consistet of a hodgepodge of other maps and unlike the first, had footnotes scrawling toward the bottom.

Sitting back in his chair, brows knitting as the chair made a sinister creak, Abram remained completely aside of the interaction that went on between Doyle and Mary. At the mention of rum, he hastily put a rough, eager 'Aye!' to hurry the mistress along. For the most part he engaged himself in tentatively shifting his weight so as to best avoid a tailbone injury when and if the chair should collapse on his unsuspecting arse.

The sound of bottles did cause his head to jerk up out of wary habit––but the scene didn't hold his gaze long, out of the corner of his eye he caught Doyle slicing a snippet of meat from Mary's dish. Trying his best to keep a straight face when Doyle succeeded, he distracted Mary for a moment longer by delicately complimenting her tavern standards. For this, he received a deep scowl, but didn't pay it much mind; a moment later and she had bustled off.

Free to discuss his findings, Abram swept a hand over the three sheets and invited Doyle to inspect them more closely. "We could make some profit off of some of those I wager," he mused, carefully leaning forward in his unsteady seat. "I haven't given them much of a look yet, but Lord knows whatever bounty we make off of them won't match what we made smuggling under Beckett's prettily powdered nose."