"I wouldn't know," Captain Cole says flatly. Having strangled the life out of the banter, the red head refocuses the conversation. "I aim t' make this port a viable location for us, Mr. Goncalvo. If we need t' lay low fer a while, I'd rather do so somewhere in the West Indies. Find me a place an' ready the Dog t' make sail quick should we need t'."

"Aye captain. I'll get to work on a plan and see to the punishment we discussed. I beg your leave." Captain Cole waves him off and Goncalvo leaves the cabin and makes his way to the poop deck. A table resides there, just before the wheel leaving enough room for people to stand at the bannister and overlook the main deck if they so desire. A chest resides below the table and it is within this chest that he keeps his charts and tools as he shares the crew quarters with the rest of the crew and has no other place to work.

There, with the soft evening breeze requiring him to anchor the corners of his maps, he takes out his notes, charts, and compass. Diligently studying and using the experience and skills that he's developed over the years, he determines that Montserrat Island in the leeward isles will be a fine place.

Montserrat Island is rumored to be Irish settled and British-owned. That there might be some place to drop anchor is based on the map. Such a determination is not easy working solely off of the charts he has on hand and the stories he was able to convince the sailors at the tavern to share, but there is little else to be done, so a selection is made. It offers good hunting waters and several other islands nearby. Ships of various flags will likely be found along this route giving the Captain her choice of attacking at will, or picking her targets along national lines.

Next, he uses his compass, charts, and experience to deduce the winds, shoals, and distances so that he may plot a course to the island. Again, he takes into account the rumors he heard from his drinking companions of where warships tend to patrol and plans to avoid those as best he can. The final course is not the most direct, but it is the one most likely to ensure safe travel as well as the chance to encounter a merchant ship en route.

With that finished he sets out to arrange the punishment for the loose lipped sailor. Such is not his favorite job but he knows the importance of information shared and information guarded. Rolling up his maps and storing the tools back in the chest, Goncalvo makes his way to the bannister and scans the main deck. Lounging about near the rope ladder is Chimwemwe showing Salazar how to tie a double figure-eight knot. No sign of Seamus Higgins, the sailor with the loose lips who had shipped him across the bay. Peering back across the darkening blue waters he can see the launch moored on the beach and the vague silhouette of the man he assumes is Higgins throwing rocks back into the ocean.

(OOC: Time is roughly 7:23 PM)

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"A debt needs to be paid, Mr. Crowe, and I want you to collect it. Barbados is where you'll manage this task as the dishonorable fool who owes my employer has fled to the Isla del Barbado where he now seeks passage to the Old World to escape his debt. Bring him to me alive and you'll earn one hundred guinea as well as the right to another job. Bring him to me dead and you'll receive twenty-five guinea and I'll consider the future at that time."

Crowe lifts a hand to absently scratch at his whisker-stubbled jaw as he contemplates the offer. Oken isn't the easiest of blokes to read, which speaks to the man's professionalism and, likely, tenure in his master's employ. The one thing Fin can tell for sure about the dandy across the table is that he's very confident of his position in this discussion and, to this point, has been playing a game of cat and mouse in order to determine whether or not he's even selected the right man for the job.

An' I'm th' bloody mouse as he sees it, Crowe thinks, an' he's no' sure I'm even fat enough ta pounce on, is he? The job Oken is offering sounds simple enough that, most likely, the man could have easily hired someone local to accomplish the task; there are plenty of people on the islands - people of Kidane's ilk - to whom he might offer such a contract, But yer jus' testin' the waters, ain't ye? Offerin' up a job tha's no' too high in yer riggin' ta see how me an' mine might fare? Yes, Fin was sure that, where Oken is concerned, there is more beyond this one offer, he just can't quite baton down exactly what that more might be, The quartermaster is determined to find out, though, one way or another.

"At full sail," Fin says after a moment of contemplation, "th' Dog c'n reach Barbados in jus' a bit more'n two days. Add in anoth'r day er so ta collect yer man an' two more fer the return trip, Aye, I reckon a hundr'd guinea's cover us, considerin' ye'd have us anoth'r job on the back end." He tips the mug to his lips, again, draining the remainder of the rum in a single swallow, and plunks the empty cup back down on the table; "I'd say we have us an accord, Mester Oken."

"An accord?" Oken blinks slowly and a barely perceptible twitch occurs in the forward portion of his left eyebrow. "Call it what you will, Mister Crowe, but we prefer to refer to it as a contract between business people.

"The man you are looking for is from South America; Brazil to be precise. His name is Rufino Abreu. He's not a big man, Mister Crowe, but he is deadly with a knife and is known for his ability to blend in, to attack from the shadows, and to fight with his hands. I do not imagine that he'll want to come with you, let alone quietly."

Dabbing at his temple again, Elias Oken continues, "Once you retrieve the thief, you will return to this port and send word through one of the serving girls at this tavern. You'll receive further instructions at that point. Any questions, Mr. Crowe?"

(OOC: Time is roughly 12:20 PM.)

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A few paces later and Cracker arrives on the edge of the line of buildings adjacent to the street. From his vantage, the Sun Dog sits sleek and promising with her sails furled and her masts slicing the horizon. There's no sign of the longboat at the shore, but William can see it pulling towards the Dog with two people at the oars, and he's pretty sure one of them is Shark Tooth.

#%^#@! He'd missed the longboat.

But no matter, it would make a return voyage. He doesn't like just walking out into the open, so while he waits for the boat to make it back to the Dog and unload its cargo, he scans the shoreline. Is there any action? He keeps his eyes open for anything out of normal. He has no reason to suspect anything is amiss, but when your profession is "pirate," you are always a bit wary when ashore. Or when on the seas. Or when awake. And especially when asleep. Or when breathing. And if you aren't breathing it is probably because you aren't wary enough.

Cracker looks around and he actually does have reason to be wary. If the law is looking for the Dog's First Mate, then it might take an interest in anyone heading toward the ship. Pirates love meeting the law. He frowns a bit and continues his survey but the activity on the beach is normal and unassuming.

When the boat makes it back to the Dog with Shark Tooth, Cracker watches for a sign of the boat's oarsman moving back to the vessel, which it does almost immediately. As the launch drawns near the shore, Cracker moves out onto the sand and approaches the place where the Dog's sailors had been dropped off and picked up. You know you are a sailor when you look forward to getting the boards under your feet again.

"Cracker," Seamus Higgins grins and drops the oars into the boat. "Through wit' yer shore leave already? Jus' took Shark's Tooth back t' the Dog, mate. He said he wanted t' check on that dark-lookin' swab ‘e brought aboard earlier an' di'n't wanna wait fer no other crew t' gather on the beach ‘fore makin' fer the Dog.

"Hate t' make any others wait,)

(OOC: Time is about 2:43 pm)

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"Can I, help, you?" A thickly accented and deep voice draws Maggie's attention away from the fabrics to the back of the store where a thin black man has emerged wearing an apron of tanned leather with many pockets across the front. The Cole girl cannot place his accent and it is difficult to understand what he's saying, but she can surmise.

Maggie finds his eyes and attempts to look as awkward and nervous as she can, which she hopes isn't that hard with the threat of the law weighing on her as it is, and smiles. "Oh, 'ullo there, I be hopin ye can help me? See, I be in a bit o' ... I need a dress, ye see. Nothin' fancy, I don't have 'nuff coin for the pretties..." She lets her words trail off, and shifts her weight from one foot to another in feigned anxiousness.

Blinking large bloodshot eyes in dismay at what's standing before him, the fellow attempts to pull himself together enough to reply, "The masta o' the store be at a fittin' bu' he no be objectin' t' me makin' a sale, I t'inks. Tell me miss, where be ya from tha' ya don' ‘ave proper clothes?"

She allows a sadness pass over her face for a moment. "From far away, an' not here o' my own choice, tell ye true," she sighs. "And Master only gimme these and it ain't right nor proper I be forced to walk aroun' like a man, and—" she stops, as if she's about to cry, and pies at her eyes with a slight turn of her head.

"I be happy t' give every last coin o' mine if you can find me a simple thing, and a bonnet. Master says me hair is a touch o' th devil hisself, and hates t' look at it, but his missus likes to brush it so he won't cut it. a bonnet'll lemme hide it, an maybe I can keep'm both happy so I won't get no more lashin's, right?"

The will to live, she finds, is stronger than her need to be free in action and clothing, and she'll suck it up enough to put on a damned dress if it keeps her out of the hands of the law. Because she knows, if they find her, it won't be long before they find the rest of the crew of the Dog, and then her sister will just nag her to their deaths behind cold iron bars.

To turn him more to her favor, she pulls out her coins and holds them in her cupped hands—all of them—and hold them out to him, "Please, sir? Will ye help me? I can't stands no more lashin's."

Hesitating, the dark-skinned tailor rapidly blinks as he looks down at the mishappen mass of coins in her hands. As though his head is on a spring, his long face bounces back up to look her in the eye. "Ya be a runaway slave! Where'd ya git the money, girl? Did ya steal it from yer massa?"

His hand drops to the cutting knife tucked into a pouch on his apron. "I'll no' be accused o' ‘elpin' ya escape. Jus' do wha's bes' fer ya, girl, an' stay put ‘til yer massa comes lookin'."

(OOC: Time is roughly 2:14 PM)

My itinerary has changed a little. But, it looks like I'll be meeting up with Olan for a meal and conversation, so that's fun!

Oh, I'll be packing heat so not to worry. If I come across a man in white, I've some special rounds just for that.

There's no need to twist my arm to continue a Trek game. I'm happy to post, or to just see resolution in terms of a Silver Screen moment.