A/N: The East India Trading Company invades the island of Tortuga, threatening the hangman's noose to its inhabitants. Scarlett finds herself alone and in hiding at the Faithful Bride, awaiting for Jack Sparrow's return. Scarlett's Letters accounts for a 5 month period between the time of invasion and Jack's return, in the process of which, she is found by Cutler Beckett and faces a harsh punishment.
Takes place between CotBP and DMC.
Special thanks to Nytd, my wonderful beta fairy!
Enjoy!
Scarlett's Letters
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Monday 12: October 1745
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The rain pattered and the wind rapped against all the windows on the island of Tortuga. Although it was a chilly, dreary day, something menacing floated adrift within the evening tide. The clouds suffocated the bright twinkling stars in the sky with an eerie, ominous blanket, masking pale, wigged figures that bustled through the quiet street.
From her bedroom window, she could have viewed the flickering lights at her windowpane, unnerved by the great storm that was approaching. She could have written to him once more, but judging by the way she was dressed, she had undoubtedly come back from the bed of another customer, but the way she was bleeding said otherwise.
The customer in question eventually walked out of the rowdy tavern after retrieving another snifter of brandy from a most scrupulous barkeep. His coat had been promptly disposed of, and his face hadn't the slightest touch of guilt.
He'd beaten her, in cold blood, without a moment's hesitation. Even though his public persona stood against abuse and adultery; he was still a liar, guilty of wickedness of the mind, covetousness and hatred. He abused her close to death after the deed was done for offering her services to pirates and scoundrels alike and for escaping the makeshift prison they had built within Saint James' Cathedral.
In the end, he dropped two shillings at the floor beside her, because after all, it was just good business.
It truly was the first time he had spilt the blood of another by his own hand, finding that he was harboring secret sorrows and qualms over the crimes he had just committed, but the world would know nothing of it or even bother to care.
He stopped just outside the tavern, turning his back to a darkly dressed figure waiting for him just outside the door.
"Take her away," he ordered, watching as the figure nodded, proceeding into the tavern without hesitation.
'She is just a woman,' he thought, 'easily dispensable in the eyes of the law.'
His eyes wandered the silent streets, and his feet propelled him through shallow puddles of rain water, gathering at the side of the road. At a distance, he appeared at ease from his previous tense disposition knowing that no one had been around to see what he had done. He pondered silently, walking into the darkness as a mere apparition, disappearing into the fog that had risen on that dreary night.
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Jack Sparrow had arrived with chilly October winds upon a smoldering black vessel deep within the horizon. He came upon an island that he found familiar with all of his riches and honors, to indulge in the spoils of his power with great pleasure.
He smiled, feeling the sweetness of life that brought endless energy to the Pearl's sails as his unwavering vessel lolled beneath his feet, wave after wave, commanding her helm with gentle stokes and an open mind.
He unlatched his spyglass, extending it out to the distant port, scanning the waters momentarily, admiring the sight. His smile dropped after careful inspection as a number of fearful thoughts rushed into his mind at an alarming speed. Amidst the fog, he made out a ship that carried at one hundred and six cannons and separate carronades, a symbol of the power of the crown, and flying the colors of the East India Trading Company.
'Beckett.' He grimaced, curling his lip.
"Mr. Gibbs," he called out to his fateful First Mate.
"Aye, Cap'n?"
"Adjust course, we've got company."
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The Pearl had weighed anchor toward Tortuga's northern coast line, avoiding the Endeavor and its lofty crew at all costs. After struggling through the island's northern terrain, Jack had come upon a junction and he had swiftly struck an angle southward in search of the road that would eventually lead him into town.
After several hours of dodging behind buildings and barrels, Jack found his way back to Tortuga's main road, but the hope of making anything like clever speed was out of the question. All he could do was to keep his legs in motion, and continued on with the utmost difficulty with thoughts that filled his mind with gloom and alarm. Tortuga was the last safe haven for pirates such as him; the damage that Beckett could cause was enormous, maybe even unimaginable.
His zigzagging and laborious travel would not go to waste; just before the setting of the sun, he had found himself stumbling into the Faithful Bride, tired and parched from his journey across the island's landscape.
He felt comforted to find the his old friend and barkeep, Padraic, a young man of Irish decent and a deep rooted passion for his trade, commencing his evening duties about the tavern; preparing various sized mugs, snifters, Absinthe fountains and glasses while lightening candles, fixing his tables and stools, and attending to the duties of the kitchen.
Grabbing the handle of his old broom, he began his final task of the evening, sweeping away dust and dirt from his tavern floor before his customers would start trickling in for an evening drink. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a figure looming within the doorway, yet he continued on, unwavering from the task at hand.
"Tavern's closed till t'night, lad. Ya'll 'ave ta come back later," he spoke, his Irish accent thick and rhythmic.
"Can you not spare a man a single drink after a month's journey at sea?"
He turned with eyes wide in disbelief. "Sparrow? Get back, inta the kitchen, now I say! 'Urry!" he whispered hoarsely, grabbing Jack by the shoulder as he led him behind the bar.
"Bloody hell, Padraic! What's gotten into you? I haven't even had a drink yet."
"Gotta mouth on ya, don't ya, Sparrow?" he breathed. "They're 'ere, they found 'er."
"Found who, exactly?"
"Yer lass, Scarlett! 'Ave ya not read tha letters she sent?"
"Never got any bloody letters, mate!"
They heard the approach of horses, and as they came up nearer, the two men stiffened with anticipation, bringing their conversation to a staggering halt. The carriage passed the tavern and halted at a neighboring house, when Jack recognized the voice of his sinister nemesis, addressing his lieutenants.
"Gillette, have you found anything of use against the convicted?"
"Nothing here but a bundle of letters, addressed to the letter J, sir," Gillette replied, weighing them in his hands.
"The letter J, is it?" he queried, motioning for Gillette to draw near. "Keep the letters on your person; I shall look at them this evening. Now, the owner of that tavern over there makes a fine Bas-Armagnac … See to it that there is a bottle in my office before I return."
"Yes, sir."
Padraic leaned into Jack, speaking no louder than a whisper. "They came in wit' tha mornin' tide nearly five months ago and ransacked tha town in a matter o' minutes with their bloody red coats cloudin' up tha roads!"
"Scarlett," Jack muttered. "What happened to her?"
"Had 'er 'ere in a room upstairs since they took the blond lass some months ago. She said she was tryin' ta get a hold of ya – told me she was writin' ya letters, she did, but Beckett came in last night … an' she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ya 'ave ta understand Jack, there was nothin' I could have done fer 'er …"
"Where have they taken her? Has she been harmed?"
"Aye, somethin' bad," he said, nodding his head in shame. "Don't rightfully know where she could be."
Jack paused for a moment, feeling anger rise within him as the door swung open once more for the entrance of the young lieutenant.
"Stay 'ere, don't move. Yer a wanted man, an' if they find ya 'ere, it'll be me neck as well fer helpin' ya," Padraic insisted, shoving a bottle of rum in Jack's hands as he exited through the kitchen door.
Padraic appeared behind the bar just as the young lieutenant rested his elbows on the edges of the smooth cedar countertop.
"What can I get fer ya, sir?"
"Rumor has it that you distill a fine Bas-Armagnac here, I hope you'll not disappoint," Gillette stated, attempting a smile.
"Rumor, aye?" he stated gruffly, taking a clean brandy snifter between his fingers, placing it gently upon the counter before the man while shifting through an arrangement of bottles to find the proper liquor. "Reality has it; I've got tha best spirits in tha Caribbean. Ain't a rumor of that 'round 'ere. Only facts."
He poured the ten year's young, Bas-Armagnac that he had diligently distilled in his own oak barrels into Gillette's snifter, awaiting his criticism.
Holding the snifter in his palm, he allowed his hand to warm the temperature of the brandy, averting his eyes to the countertop as he shifted the snifter between his fingers, watching the liquids movement.
He brought the snifter up to his chin, taking a few shallow breaths through the nose. He was certainly a man of refinement, sipping from the very edge of the snifter ever so slowly, taking a few drops and holding it upon his tongue, allowing the taste of the brandy's attitudes to linger without being overwhelmed by the taste of the alcohol.
"This is splendid! Wonderful taste and aroma, indeed, I might be so inclined to purchase a bottle…"
"Don't sell brandy by tha bottle, sir. Neva 'ave – make more profit by the glass, by my reckoning," he said, attempting to smile as he idly made himself busy cleaning glasses.
"How much would you willing to sell it for? If there were some sort of motivation to sell it by the bottle, of course," Gillette offered.
Gillette's query prompted Jack to appear from his hiding place behind the kitchen door, flintlock pistol in hand, aimed at an unexpected target. "You can have all the brandy you want, mate, in exchange for the letters you have there, in your pocket," he stated, moving the barrel of his pistol from Padraic's temple to motion toward Gillette's coat pocket.
"C-Captain Sparrow?" Gillette's stammered incredulously, frozen in his stance. "Are you joking?"
"Now no sudden moves now, Lieutenant. Wouldn't want our dear ol' friend here to pay for your mistakes…" Jack persuaded, motioning with his pistol once more, turning to Padraic. "Can't exactly run a tavern with an iron bullet in your head, now can you?"
"You can't be serious…Have you gone mad?" Gillette responded, shaking his head.
Jack cocked his pistol, aiming it firmly. "I'm no more mad than I am joking."
Gillette complied, placing his empty snifter upon the counter as he slid his fingers within the inner lining of his coat to remove the bundle of letters from his pocket; he paused, delaying their delivery for a moment. 'Addressed to the letter J…' he thought, placing the pieces together in his mind.
"Come, come now, I haven't got all day! And I'm rather sure he doesn't either, do you, mate?" Jack queried, placing the barrel of his pistol back onto Padraic's temple, prompting him to raising his arms. "That's what I thought…"
Gillette finally dropped the letters on the counter, slowly backing away from the bar as Jack began to follow him, with Padraic as his shield and a bottle of brandy as his tool.
"Now, son, I suggest you go off and tell your bloody friend Beckett that he's got something of mine, and I'd like to have it back," he stated, tossing the bottle over to Gillette. "On the house… send my regards to your Lord, if you will."
Without a moment's notice, Jack raised his pistol, aiming it toward the ceiling, firing one explosive shot to scare the young lieutenant, causing him to rush out the door with his message to Beckett.
He released Padraic as soon as the man was out of range, placing the pistol back on his hip. "No offense, mate, but I'll not be having you hang beside me…"
"Aye, that's a fine thing," Padraic sighed, "but, did ya really have ta give 'im tha whole bloody bottle?"
Jack smiled for a moment as Padraic placed a hand on his shoulder. "I suppose I'll be needing to find a place to stay in the meanwhile…"
"An' I suppose ya'll be wantin' ta stay 'ere?"
"A rather interesting proposition you have there, my dear Padraic. Now, who in their right mind, would let their assailant take safe haven in their very own home?" he queried with a tone of persuasion.
"A madman, fer taken on tha likes of ya…"
"Seems quite contributory, if you ask me, now what say you?"
"If I say no, ya'll most likely be dead within the week, and I wouldn't want ta be facin' that poor lass after that."
"Ah! So, we have an accord then!" Jack exclaimed, extending a hand out for Padraic to take.
Padraic extended his hand wearily. "Aye, that we do," he confirmed, motioning for Jack to head back into the tavern kitchen. "Ya'll be sleepin' in the cellar, behind the rum barrels."
"You know, I've always fancied your rum best…" he stated, licking his lips as he watched Padraic unhinge a latch hidden between two of the kitchen floorboards.
"Flattery will get ya nowhere, and don't be stealin' any, er it's comin' out of yer pocket. This ain't any invitation to be pilferin' spirits off of me in light of me generosity."
Padraic led Jack down a short flight of stairs to the tavern's large and extensive cellar where traditional and modern liquor methods and innovations were well harmonized and used from the very beginning of the distillation process all the way to the final filtering procedure. Such kind of superiority was even further enhanced by the aging process occurring in oak barrels and afterward in bottles stored in the cellar's dark corridors.
"Bloody hell, mate, didn't know you could fit all this down here…"
"Listen well, Sparrow. Ya'll not be stealin', pilferin', plunderin', or whatever is it that ya do while yer stayin' 'ere in my cellar."
"Well that just sucks the life out of my visit, now doesn't it?" he joked, looking down at the letters as he felt his smile suddenly drop.
"I'll leave ya to yer thoughts…" Padraic said, turning to climb up the steps once more, shutting the cellar door behind him as he left.
Soon after Padraic's departure, Jack had found a cozy corner alongside one of the large oak barrels. Seeing that there was ample candlelight and several old crates to contribute to his comforts, he took a seat, placing Scarlett's letters in his lap.
He picked up the very first letter, dating back to the month of May. The letter was written on a simple sheet of parchment that had been neatly folded and sealed with Scarlett's custom wax stamp that bore her initials and bundled with a shear scarlet ribbon. He proceeded to break the seal, untying the decorative ribbon with the very tips of his fingers to finally unfold the letter, attempting to identify its contents. He immediately noted that it written in a cross style, making it hard to decipher.
'Smart girl,' he thought.
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Sunday 25: May 1745
My Dearest J~
I truly apologize for not writing as often as I've promised, but the truth is I have been so hard put for time that I have not been able to do so.
The East India Trading Company has found its way to the shores of Tortuga in your absence, and they have taken Giselle and Madame Sophia along with many others into confinement, threatening the hangman's noose. Cutler Beckett has decreed the hanging of all those associated with piracy, and has been bold enough to put forth the extremity of our common law against us, and as you may know, the penalty for consorting with pirates is death.
Men, women and children alike are being executed each day at the scaffold they built in the town square in front of St. James' Cathedral. Beckett has offered them all their last rights before execution. It would pain me greatly to see Giselle standing upon the scaffold. I fear that soon, I shall be by her side.
I know that my letter will not reach you for some time; perhaps it will take a month or maybe a year to find itself in your hands. I hope this will find you promptly, for we are in desperate need.
I will go into hiding at the F.B.
P has provided me with a small room, overlooking the horizon. I will be watching for your vessel and awaiting your swift arrival.
Wish me luck, dearest.
I am affectionately yours,
~S