I guess the speeds of events are being a little inconsistent…I now regret not going into Jacqueline's training more, perhaps I will revisit it with flashbacks.

Also, thank you everyone for all the favorites and follows! I'm so happy that this story is at least sorta taking off! But don't forget to review! Reviews are like delicious, delicious fuel. It tastes like assassin.

W'P

"We are keenly aware of the faults of our friends, but if they like us enough it doesn't matter." -Mignon McLaughlin

-o-

Faulkner pushed into the tavern first. His apprentices followed warily, awkwardly. The place was smoky and it seemed as though alcohol saturated every greasy surface. Jacqueline wondered why, out of the entire Vineyard they could go, they were visiting a seedy dive that was probably frequented by less than desirable company. The former captain seemed to have no problem with it and magnetised to the barmaid, or perhaps she was the hostess.

"Hullo, miss Mandy. You're looking every bit as ravishing as I remember." He said chivalrously.

The unattractive woman turned to sneer at him. "Hm! After all these years you sail all the way to the Vineyard to pay me compliments?"

Faulkner made a face, like he'd been caught. "We are looking for David and Richard Clutterbuck.

"Hm." She huffed again, and nodded to a small table where two men were hunched. "Nice to see you, too."

Faulkner strode to the table, Connor and Jacqueline meandering aimlessly behind as they took in the patrons and tavern. One of the men looked up as they approached. He had high cheekbones, a shaven face and a nose that was crooked from a bad break. The low light shone off his bald scalp. "Robert Faulkner. Where the hell have you been?"

"Sorry for leavin' like I did, lads, but where I was goin', nobody could know." Faulkner sat down at the table on the last remaining side; the other was against the stairs to the second floor.

The second man replied this time. There was a little more weight on him, and a black beard clung to his round chin. "No. Between contracts at the moment."

"Well, we're looking for gunnery officers. What's you two say to workin' for me again?"

The comrades looked over the table at each other. "We'd be for getting' into a few new scrapes." Beard said. The three men laughed.

Jacqueline puffed out her cheek and exhaled out the corner of her mouth. Connor caught her glance and they both rolled their eyes as the men did "business." As Connor's eyes settled, it was on a table across from Faulkner. Two men sat there as well, but kept their heads bowed over their business on the table. Their attire was nicer than most there, but something about their shadiness threw up red flags for Jacqueline. Apparently, it was more than red flags for her friend.

Connor marched right up to the table. "Where is Charles Lee?" He demanded.

One of the men looked up. His face was paunchy and pale, and he wore a white wig with an elaborate hat on top. Jacqueline was more of a sailor than this man. "I don't much care for your tone, boy."

The other man at the table stood. He was a towering wall of stink and facial scars. His hair was like Connor's and hung over his face, but instead of being soft and braided with beads, it was dirty and made his features look even more haggard and ugly. He stood easily a foot taller than either of them.

"Hey, you don't wanna be doin' that, Biddle." He placed a hand on Connor's shoulder and held another one out beseechingly to the other bloke.

"Bobby Faulkner turned to wet-nursing?" The man drawled, his scruffy lip curling up into a cruel smirk. He absently pushed Connor out of the way, which also moved Jacqueline away. "Good you finally realised you're a shite sailor."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Miss Mandy hurried over and stepped between them, fearlessly shoving both men apart. "Not in here, gentlemen. Better still, not at all! Bobby, take your friends and get out!"

"Let's go, boys." Faulkner said reluctantly, and gestured for the others. He didn't break eye contact with Biddle until they were almost out the door. "Our guns ought to be ready. Come on."

It turned out the guns weren't ready. Not ready enough to set sail with, anyway. Jacqueline was now frustrated and irritated and some other restless feelings, but she didn't want to stay in the Vineyard with Biddle and the other man lurking about. So decided to stay below deck on the Aquila, shooting a post and trying to become Robin Hood by splitting her arrow in half.

Gnawing the inside of her cheek, she watched as the flint dug in directly next to her previous shot. She reached back for another arrow and found that her quiver was empty. It took a moment of confused groping before she turned around. There was no one behind her. Back facing the post, her spent arrows were also gone. She exhaled with a ferocity that could be considered angry.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, I am not in the mood. Your little outburst almost got the lot of us into a good fight, so I'm not exactly happy right now." She tossed her empty quiver aside and sat fast enough that her cloak billowed in a half circle behind her.

A handful of black- and white-fletched arrows dangled in front of her, clattering softly like bones. She grabbed them, tossed them aside by the quiver, spun with a leg out, and Connor went toppling over. She lunged across the raw wood floor to him, still baffled by what had just happened. She swung a leg over, straddling him, and slapped a hand down on his sternum to keep him in place. He put up his hands in surrender; it was strangely reminiscent of his first time at the manor.

"Stealing my arrows is not going to put me in a good mood." She frowned. "What was all that about back there? In the tavern?"

"I made a vow to find Charles Lee." Connor said firmly. "Men like them will lead me to him."

"Not if you get us killed first." She hissed. "Did the sea get to your head, Ratonhnhaké:ton? Picking fights with Templars is not the way to get to Lee!"

"I was not trying to pick a fight." He tried sitting up, clearly uncomfortable with their position, but she pushed him back down. He grimaced and rubbed the back of his head. "I only asked a question."

"You may as well have drawn a blade!"

"Nothing went wrong!"

"Because Faulkner was there." Jacqueline snapped. "Because he interfered. If he had not, the consequences could have been much, much worse."

"But they were not."

"And what if I told Achilles, hm?" She asked. Her tone was light, but sharper than a knife. "I could. He likes me more."

"He does not! And he does not have to know."

Now Connor simply tried pushing her off. She grabbed his wrists and slammed them to the floor spread eagle. He made an attempt at pushing her hands away, but every time he got one free she would manage to pin it back down again. He tried throwing her off, and it briefly succeeded. She rolled off to the side, fell back on the balls of her feet, and pounced forward to tackle him. They tussled for a while, in the dim underneath of the ship. A few punches were thrown between them, drawn to avoid injury. Connor, in all their training, refused to land a single strike on her that would ever leave a mark or actually do some damage. It was no different, but he still had the advantage. He fought better in close combat, while she was better with open spaces. The careless fighting went on in a flurry of energy and quiet tamping of feet, but in the end, they ended up in the same position as before.

Jacqueline finally pinned him down again, panting from exertion. Her braid dropped over her shoulder and brushed his chest where his tunic made a V. Connor swallowed. His cheeks flushed a little.

"Will you stop moving for five seconds and listen to me?" She gasped.

"Why should I? You are making a mountain of an anthill."

"Wrong! This kind of attitude will get you into trouble, Ratonhnhaké:ton! What would we have done if Faulkner had not stopped those men?"

"I would have fought them!" He declared. "And I would have won."

"How do you know? We've only a few years of training combined, and we're barely armed at that."

"I do not need weapons. I would have fought them with my bare hands if it brought me closer to Lee."

That brought her up short. He was really set on this. She sighed, and let out a little breathless laugh. "You are impossible."

"Oi!" Faulkner knocked on the doorframe, making them both flinch and look up. At that moment they both seemed to realise what a scene they must make—a couple of teenagers in the abandoned belly of a ship, catching their breaths, with one quite literally straddling the other, looking tousled with a few emerging marks on their quickly reddening skin.

The first mate made an exasperated noise. "Come on, you two. Time to set off. Connor, up top, we need someone at the helm. Jacqueline, just…" He waved a hand, shaking his bearded head. "Get off the poor boy."

She flushed to her ears and did so. Connor awkwardly brushed himself off and fled after Faulkner. Jacqueline picked up her arrows and quiver, rubbed the blush from her cheeks, and followed. The sun was a bright, boiling yellow circle that hovered at the horizon. The sky was pink, with dark clouds, and the air smelled like grapes and salt and pine. She inhaled deeply through her nose, and climbed the shroud up to the nest and Thomas.

"Ready to go?" She asked, climbing inside the nest. "Guns! Exciting!"

"And enough more crew members to man them." Thomas nodded and leaned against the side. His brow furrowed, and he looked her over. "You seem troubled. What's on your mind?"

Jacqueline scoffed from the back of her throat. "Ratonhnhaké:ton is being ridiculous as ever. While we were in the Vineyard he almost got us into serious trouble."

It took him a second to realise she meant Connor. "Ah, right. What'd he do?"

"He tried…picking a fight, basically." She sighed and ran a hand down her face. "Cet idiot."

Thomas laughed. "Get into a good ol' fashioned brawl, then, didja?"

"No!" She said indignantly. "Faulkner stopped it before it went too far." She made the scoffing noise again. "Connor is going to get into a big mess some day, and Faulkner won't always be there to bail him out. But, I suppose…" She sighed, not unhappily. "I will be."

"You're lookin' a touch beaten yourself," He pointed out, gesturing to her stray bits of hair and a darkening bruise around her wrist—that one was from Connor throwing her into a post. He had a tight grip.

"Ah, oui." She quickly re-braided her hair to keep the fly-aways down. "I brought up the topic and we ended up fighting about it. Actually fighting."

"Oh, I catcha," Thomas gave her an exaggerated wink and put up air quotes. "'Fightin'."

The flush from before rushed back up her neck. "Oh, no, it's not—"

A series of eardrum-rupturing explosions made the mast sway like a flag. On an outcropping of rock on the starboard side, a beached English ship shattered apart into splinters. There were a few cheers from below at the mindless violence against an inanimate object. The two observers in the crow's nest looked down on the deck as the port side cannons fired at another, similar ship. The swivel cannon struck a hole in the hull of the old ship, and it must have been filled with powder kegs, for it erupted apart with a rumbling, fiery boom. Jacqueline clapped happily at the spectacle, watching as the remains of the ships sank into the water.

"Now I see why we got the guns!" She giggled. "I like this ship!"

"Ah!" Thomas cried out, and pointed off the starboard bow at the same time as another lookout on deck. "Avast, British gunships, starboard side!" There were indeed gunships. They were little and dwarfed compared to the Aquila, but were firing upon them nonetheless. "This is your fault, you and your black song!"

Jacqueline grumbled something in French about superstitious fools, and swung herself out of the nest to the shroud. She dropped halfway down to the deck. There was a cry for them to get down, and most of the crew introduced their knees to the floor. Once they were given the all clear, she stood up again and made a dash up to the helm.

"Why the hell are they shooting at us?" She asked loudly. It was a lot noisier on deck.

"Destroying property of the crown. Disturbing the King's peace. Take your pick." Faulkner said dryly.

The dark clouds that had smeared the sky had evolved into a dark ceiling over them, and rain began to trickle down. "What do we do?" Connor asked. He turned the ship so their side faced the attacking ships at all times.

"Naught else but to fight back. Sink the bastards!"

The cannons were loaded, all of them. If nothing else, their new gunmen seemed eager to show off their skills with gunpowder and solid metal. When the call for fire was called, they launched the guns with bloodthirsty efficiency. The missed shots made vertical plumes of white foam in the black, churning waters, but the shots that landed blew apart the much smaller boats. There were only perhaps three or four, and a single swivel cannon could take down one by itself. As it seemed they were clear to continue on, an enormous ship about the size of the Aquila materialised from nowhere.

"I'll be betwattled. Where the bloody hell did she come from?" Faulkner exclaimed. Connor was forced to wrench the ship back, because the British one was coming at them at a destructive angle.

The two ships ran parallel now, so close that Jacqueline could see a candle burning in the captain's quarters, and the redcoats running up and down deck. The scene was illuminated in a moment by a flash of lightning. Thunder crashed in a single bang louder than any gunshot. The rain was pouring down on them now, making it hard to see and stand. Behind her, Connor roared to brace, and everyone hit the deck. The beams under their feet shuddered at the force of the British ship's attack, and shards of wood shot through the air. A few seconds passed, and Jacqueline stood. The British were reloading, drifting away, and this was their chance.

There was barely time to cover her ears. The gunmen were crack shots, and the English ship took a blow. It came back, of course, rocking up and down on the crashing waves toward them. They braced in time for the volley, but not soon enough, and a few agonised yells of pain were whisked away in the storm.

"Damage report!" Faulkner cried, and listened with a grave expression as a nearby crewmember listed the damages to the hull. "Right. Girl, go get the injured down below! Quickly now, go!"

Jacqueline dashed off down the deck and promptly slipped to fall flat on her face. Panic hit her when she saw the blood that ran across her arms and hands, and then disgust when she realised it wasn't her blood. She stumbled up to the nearest injured crewmember. He had several large splinters of wood sticking from him, and was missing a couple fingers. She managed to get his attention and escort him below decks.

Underneath, a few casualties had already been laid out on their bunks, and the deeper parts were now flooded. "This is chaos!" Jacqueline cried to a fellow temporary nurse. When he didn't reply, she assumed she must have said it in French.

"Get bandaging." He instructed. They had to speak loudly to be heard over one man's screaming—he was missing a foot. "It's over there."

She jogged to the indicated crates and opened the first one. Potatoes. At another time, she might have laughed, but instead, she just shoved it to the side and checked the next one. That one was the bandaging. Perplexed, she wondered who in their right mind put medical supplies next to potatoes.

There was no time to think, however. She tossed several rolls to the other caretaker and took one herself, along with a bottle of whiskey that was in there. Back with her fingerless acquaintance, she uncorked the whiskey with her teeth and began pulling splinter from him. When most of the debris was out she splashed the alcohol on the injuries and dabbed it away with the bandaging. She patched up the fingers as tight as she could. He had stopped screaming, but was staring in disbelief at his missing fingers. Floundering and panicking, she shoved the rest of the whiskey in his hand and abandoned the wounded sailors for the upper deck.

Now drenched in diluted blood and filth, she numbly fell to her knees at the call to brace. This was all wrong—it was supposed to be a visit to Martha's Vineyard, not a firefight with the British on the open seas. The all clear was announced, and she pulled herself to her feet. The world's colours seemed washed out and the sounds distant, as though through a tunnel. This was different than defending the manor. These were comrades-in-arms, dying and bleeding out in front of her.

Staring off in the distance, she fumbled back to the helm. She fell over when the cannons rang out for the last time. The British frigate descended into the water, its flames being extinguished as it went, like a curtain falling. Faulkner clapped her shoulder as she approached. He was talking to Connor.

"Carry on, sailor. Not bad for your first voyage, eh, boy?" He said appraisingly. "Now, we best be getting back, or the old man will have my guts for garters."

-o-

The Aquila docked on the Homestead in the high afternoon. The journey back had taken much longer, combined with their time stocking up at the Vineyard. They had been gone three weeks. Jacqueline bounded off the ship, not eager to see Achilles but not eager to keep him waiting, either. Connor and Faulkner lagged behind, talking about the raving old Peg Leg man. Thomas caught up to her before she could throw herself at her mentor's feet.

"Until next time, Miss Jack," He said, a name he had given her because her full one was "such a bleedin' mouthful" to say. He kissed the back of her hand. "The Aquila will be here."

"Au revoir, Thomas." She beamed back, a little pink touching her cheeks. "You are a good travelling companion."

At a glance over her shoulder, she saw Connor waiting for her. With a friendly wave to the lookout, she jogged to catch up with her friend. They walked in silence up the hill with the solemnity of convicts to their execution. When they crested the edge of the hill to see the manor waiting, unchanged, she spoke first.

"What do you think he'll make us do?" She asked fearfully, not wanting to hear any answer Connor had.

"I do not know." He said simply.

He went first, gingerly opening the door, as though expecting a series of complicated explosives to set off upon opening. But nothing happened. They walked into the manor. It was silent but for their tentative footsteps and breathing. Standing at the base of the stairs like Charon at the gates to the Underworld was Achilles. He frowned deeply, looking between them sternly.

At last, breaking the heavy silence, he spoke in his deceivingly soft voice, worn from age. "Three weeks, and not even a goodbye before you left."

He didn't sound angry. He sounded...disappointed. Connor said the only thing between both of them. "Sorry."

Achilles turned away from them and took a step down the hall. He glanced over his shoulder. "Well, what are you waiting for? Come on."

Jacqueline took a deep breath to extinguish her pent-up adrenaline. They were going to the basement to train. She wasn't going to be skinned alive. She hadn't been so happy to start training since she began a few years ago. Once they arrived back in the familiar, low-lit, miniature arena, Achilles turned to her and waved a hand.

"If you could excuse us, Jacqueline." He said wearily. Though confused, she simply nodded and started back up the stairs. Behind her, she heard him say, "Put them on."

She spent her few free minutes sitting in the kitchen, resting her head against the window. The sun of the afternoon was warm on her skin, but she was nowhere near falling asleep. She was staring at her hands. Some skin had been scraped away that night on the Aquila, when she had slipped in the blood and water and salt. Her knees looked similar under her stockings. Little bits of blood were dried to her nail beds and didn't want to go away. She took a shaky breath and looked back out the window.

Footsteps on the basement stairs caused her to look back. Connor was standing in the hall, straightening the sleeves of the robes that had been on the dummy. They were a little big on him, but suit him well. Achilles emerged from behind him, and she stood to join them.

"Once upon a time there was a ceremony for such occasions, but I don't think any of us are really the type for that. You may as well join in, as you never went through this." Achilles gestured for her to stand next to Connor. "You've your tools and training, your targets and goals. And now you have your titles. Welcome to the Brotherhood. Both of you."