A Slice of Pye  

Solange slammed a heavy mug on the table. Her eyes flicked to three large bottles of rum, still full, then to the woman opposite her at the table.  

“I am not sure who is paying for all we have so far consumed,  mademoiselle, mais I could take more as long as it is not coming from my pocket.” Solange leaned on the bottle in her hand as the words slurred from her lips.  

“Aye. Well, pretty, the coin is not from my purse so drink away.” The copper haired woman took another swallow from her own mug.  

The pair had entered the small Jamaican tavern separately and with divergent intentions. Quickly, though, they found common interest and distraction in one another. 

Two bottles later Maggie introduced herself to a Solange four bottles in. Still the pair out drank every sailor and farmer in the room.  

“Qu’est-ce que c’est que we are drinking encore, ma chere?” Solange was slipping into her native tongue, a sure sign the effects of the alcohol were taking hold.  

“Rum. More specifically, blackstrap molasses rum.” Maggie swirled another bottle in her hand. “It is soon to be all that is in your blood at the rate you drink, small one.”  

Solange scowled. “And you as well, non, Miss Pye? You have had near as much as I, and I shall hear no more of my size being reason for stopping.”  

Maggie laughed and poured another round. She, too, was beginning to enjoy herself a bit much. The woman marinated themselves in every drink and poison. 

And indeed, the smaller girl matched Maggie better than any sailor. Where Solange slipped into proper French and improper behavior, Maggie slid to courtesy and manner in opposition to the thief she claimed to be.  

“I have a confession, dear companion. I am not here for the drink.” Maggie whispered as she filled Solange’s mug.  

“Je sais.” Solange leaned in. 

Maggie was taken aback by the knowing in the response, but the wide eyes of the girl eased her concern enough to brush the comment as talk of a  drunken wench.  

“Vous etes ici por,” Solange tilted her head in the direction of an overfed fop.  

Maggie’s eyes flicked from her mark to her companion.  

Solange grinned and drank deep, draining her mug enough to see her partner through the clear base. 

“Bijou.” Solange all but burped the word in Maggie’s face. 

“You are a perceptive one, small lady.” Maggie buried her surprise in  sarcasm. 

This strange company was more than Maggie had anticipated. Solange was equally intrigued and glad to have found camaraderie in place of trouble on this venture off the Lenore. 

“Je et tu have an eye for all that glitters, belle.”  

“Very perceptive indeed.” Maggie’s eyes sparkled. “It is like a curse: I am  drawn to sparklies like the compass to true north.” 

“I have been watching you.” Solange tapped the corner of her eye. “You have tabled with every man of coin, pocketed his treasures.” Solange noted the slide of coins unmistakable, though muffled by the velvet pouches dangling at Maggie’s hips. Your skill astounds me. So how is it you intend to obtain the trinkets from a man whose gluttony is for food in place of drink, or the company of a woman.” 

The burgundy corset that emphasized her curves swelled as Maggie sighed off another smile. Solange admired the curve of the woman’s lips and glint in her mellow grey eyes. Twisted spirals of gold danced in the woman’s chestnut curls. Maggie’s fingers toyed at the string of gold discs and amber stones that circled her throat.  

 No doubt Maggie knew treasure better than most. She could smell the purity in metals, gauge a precious stone by the wink of a facet. Maggie was indeed a compass magnet to all that glittered. But to believe the woman could walk to the fop and convince him to hand over his wealth, no chance.  

“If I say, you might decide it is a good idea for you to try in my stead.” Maggie hissed.  

Solange choked a laugh. “No. Non, ma belle. I seek to fill my soul and drain a few bottles. Wealth is little to me. Rum, tu dit, cette la? This island has the best drink I have ever come to know.” 

Solange breathed, and Maggie smelled her point well enough. 

“You hope to take a few bottles for your next voyage?” Maggie laughed once again.  

“Aye, the best.” Solange pointed to the bottles closest to the same fop Maggie had marked.  

“So we do have the same target.”

“Qu’est ‘que vous dit, belle. An arrangement to the benefit of both toi et moi?” Solange batted her lashes.  

Maggie’s look seemed to count as agreement to a temporary partnership of mutual fortune. 

The pair downed each another mug in toast to imminent success. But with curt nod, the women stood in unison. Each swung a leg at a time over the benches and swaggered to close the distance to their target. Inches from their prey Solange however tripped over the leg of a chair and tumbled into Maggie.  

“Wench!” Maggie shoved the girl off.  

“Chien!” Solange shot back, venom in her tone. 

Solange swung and missed with a flail of her balled fist. Maggie returned the swing, though she circled wide slamming instead into the fop’s table.  

Too late the fop flinched and raised his gaze to a pair of fists.  

Solange shook out the impact from her knuckles as the man rolled from his seat, his weight toppling him onto the floor with a shuddering crash. 

Solange turned wide eyes on Maggie as a drunken snicker threatened to burble free. For but a breath, Maggie smiled with bare enough expression for only Solange to notice. 

“You’ve knocked him out, ye depraved French tart!” Maggie railed.  

Solange smelled rum on the thief’s tongue as she blinked her own sobriety into focus.  

With a sweep like a practiced curtsy, Maggie bent to the aid of the swelling fop, each of his plump hands in hers.  

“I? Mais non! C’est ton travaille.” Solange swept the pair of bottles from the fallen man’s table.  

A rum in each hand, Solange closed on Maggie.  

“Whoa now, pretty!” Maggie’s hands went first to her chest before she held them out to ward off the drunken devil closing on her.  

The pair sidled toward the door. Maggie’s hands pushed aside sailors seated along a length of bench. The men were hardly sober enough to move out of harm’s path on their own, as Solange swung the bottles high. A more steady hand might have connected with any of the heads in her path. 

Patrons still sober and untouched by Maggie’s plots, walled the women in yet allowed them their space to dance. Sailors did so love a good wench war.  

Solange swung a bottle and Maggie leaned out of the bottle’s arc. Both continued toward the entrance to the tavern, Solange swinging wild, with right then left, forcing the crowd to fan and part.

The pair meandered their fight to the porch, cool air striking them somewhat more sober. Solange scanned for passersby before throwing another wide sweep with the bottles. Maggie tumbled back over the rails to land with wobbled legs in the street.  

“I have you now!” Solange whooped.  

Maggie spun clear again of the swinging bottles and was off at a run in the direction of the beach. 

“So you say, small one!” A manic laugh followed in Maggie’s wake.  

Solange gave chase with a raucous howl, bottles swirling with her hands aloft.  

Patrons and staff of the tavern lingered wordless. As they watched the pair gallop over the ridge and into the darkness.  

“Thieves!” The fop forced to the fore of the press of onlookers.  

All eyes shifted to the plump, brocade form with a lace kerchief to one  swelling cheek. His fingers were bare. 

The side Maggie had struck was darkening much more than the one Solange had connected, slurring his speech with a foam of blood and loose teeth. “Those bottles were meant for the governor!” 

The crowd turned to the darkness beyond the fires of the porch. A few looked back at the fop with weak smiles and a shake of their heads.  

“No business of ours, mate, if ye can’t handle a woman or two on your own merit.” The barkeep laughed until he counted the eight drained bottles of his best rum at the table the two women had occupied. “Oi, wait a minute.” 

At this many of the patrons patted their pockets. Sure as the sun, any Maggie had touched on her path had not a thing of value left to them.  

“Damned wenches!”

“Bloody thieves!”  

Far from the range of hearing or capture the women rolled into the cool sands of the beach. The slivered moon seemed to smile with them as they laughed.  

Maggie splayed her fingers heavy with the fop’s rings.  

“You are a wonder, Mademoiselle Pye.” Solange caught her breath between fits of laughter.  

“I could have been successful without your assistance. But it would not have been near as much fun.” Maggie’s laughter caught in the moment.

For a breath Solange thought perhaps the game had now turned against her favor.

Maggie shook her head at her own discourtesy. “Fah. Look at this. A woman what can drink me under and speak another language while at it. “Aye, you know I did not catch your name.” 

At this Solange relaxed only in the slightest. She was as much taken with the woman, yet still dared to trust no one off the few on the Lenore. 

Her prayers seemed answered when in another laugh Maggie carried on. “Ah but what’s a name if not earned! I will call ye what you must mostly be at this stage of our evening!” Maggie waggled her sparkling fingers and Solange again lost her focus.

“Blackstrap.”   

“Blackstrap?” Solange considered. “Oui. Yes. Aye. Blackstrap.”  

“Aye. Sweet and slow ‘til set to bubble. Then dark and rich as any trouble.” Maggie offered a bejeweled hand. “It is good to make your fine  acquaintance, Mademoiselle Blackstrap.”  

Solange let the sands catch one of the bottles as she extended her hand in turn. "Enchanté, Mademoiselle Pye. I should like to work with you again.”