Through the small round window in Arthur's chamber, the view of the island, getting closer and closer, was perfect. Tortuga – the Turtle Island. A well-chosen name. Viewing from the sea, the approaching Island resembled a monstrous sea turtle, covered in giant trees growing on bare rocks where no soil could be seen.
Arthur fiddled with the bracket and pushed the hatch open. At once, the room filled with the sounds of the wind blowing through the sails and riggings, and the water splashing against the hull. He breathed in; the air hung moist and hot and salty. At that moment the ship turned, leaning into the waves, and a splash of spray hit Arthur's reached-out hand and face, the sudden coolness of the water bringing a surprised smile to his face.
A hum of activity was drifting down from the deck above. The crew was preparing the ship for landing; orders were given and excited shouts were exchanged, ropes and oars pulled, creaking. A couple of sailors passed just by Arthur's door. Their words reached his ears faintly.
"...Now would you look at the shape of this island? Looks like a monster, says I… They say it's cursed…"
Loud laughter. "Your first time here, ain't it? Wait 'till ye see the lasses of Tortuga… Bet you won't be talking about a curse then..." the voices faded as the pair walked away.
Arthur rolled up his salt-stained sleeve and turned to pack his little belongings. They were nearing the end of several weeks at sea – finally, an end to the seasickness and a steady ground to stand on. And although he tried to hide it away, quiet it, for it might interfere with his calm determination – the excitement of the upcoming adventure was there. This mission was his first away from his homeland, not to mention a place like this…
For in the past years the island of Tortuga was made a base of operation for the worst type of people – pirates. And although he had interacted with their kind before, in the trials back in Britain, Tortuga was something else entirely. It was their kingdom. Here, these outlaws, harsh and cruel as they were to their victims at sea, developed their own independent society.
And Arthur couldn't wait to see it.
In the past fifteen years, since the year 1625, the island was inhabited by settlers from Europe. The majority of the residents in the port town Cayona, where the Royal Navy ship Arthur arrived in had set anchor, were French. God, that damn supercilious language all around, spoken and shouted and sung. To add to that, even when English could be heard, a good portion of it was in the sailor speech that was still partly incomprehensible to Arthur.
The permanent residents of the town were either rich planters, owners of fields of tobacco and cotton, or the hosts of inns and brothels established in order to provide the needs of the changing part of the population – who were quite a strange mix of people coming and going. Some of them were traders, coming to sell or buy from the island market's rich offering; meat and hides, tobacco and sugar, brandy and rum, guns and gunpowder, cloth for sails and cloth for dressing.
But those behind it all - those who gave the place its reason of existence and drove the gears behind the island's economy, causing the market to flourish with their plundered goods - were the buccaneers.
From sight alone, they could be told apart from the regular folks Arthur was used to seeing. Like all sailors, they had a rolling gait from months of keeping their balance on a heaving deck. Their skin was tanned and scarred of handling sails in heavy weather - and of course, from fighting. Their outfits were practical and hard-wearing, but the higher ranked, standing apart from the rest by their aura of power, adorned themselves with silks, velvets and other things agreeable; but unlike the European gentlemen, the rich fabrics were joined in a strange mixture to shirts or trousers of ragged cloth, leather boots or handkerchiefs tied around the neck. They were all armed to the teeth with pistols and daggers and swords, their voices were hoarse and their faces were harsh.
In his neat long coat, waistcoat, knee breeches and stockings, which signed him as neither a planter nor a pirate, Arthur attracted much attention as he walked the streets of the port town. Conversations were abruptly stopped and eyes turned to watch him pass. Another disadvantage of his clothing was soon brought to his attention as the sun climbed higher in the sky, burning intolerably like it never did in England.
Nevertheless, Arthur walked on, for he had an impending mission to fulfill. In this foreign town he was to find a certain man whose looks, unfortunately, he did not know.
He had been wandering around the town for almost two hours when salvation came from an unexpected source.
A young woman tugged at his sleeve. "Vous cherchez quelque chose?"
Arthur stopped. "Excuse me," he replied shortly. "I don't speak French."
The girl's eyes widened in surprise, then she laughed and switched to surprisingly good English. "I'm sorry, are you looking for something?"
At this natural change of language, Arthur's irritation mingled with curiosity, and he turned to study the woman's face. She was pretty – dark brown curls, deep green eyes, tanned skin. Her accent wasn't French – her words were almost sing-songed, with rolling 'r's – Spanish, maybe?
"Well…" Arthur began slowly, "I am searching for someone…"
The girl rested her elbow on his arm. "And who might that be, Sir?"
Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Give me a moment." Frowning, he pulled out a folded paper from his pocket, and unfolded it hastily, trying his best with his left hand while the right was being leant on. "Captain… B-Bonnefoy?" He tried his best, reading the blurred ink from the water-soaked paper.
"Oh!" the girl grinned. "Bonnefoy," she corrected his pronunciation of the name: Bon-fuah.
Of course, he knew he had got it wrong.
"Francis Bonnefoy, right? He's a friend of mine. You're very lucky, Sir," the lady announced, "his ship returned just yesterday from a journey. Follow me," she crossed her arm with Arthur's and began walking. Arthur tagged along, wearing the expression of one failing to catch up with the flow of unexpected events.
"Pity you do not speak French, Sir," the woman noted absently. "That's not good in our times. It's an international language."
Arthur, who on a regular day would have taken that as a call to start an argument about the superiority of English, merely blinked at her. "...Right."
"This your first time at the island, Mister…?"
"Uh, Kirkland. Yes, it is."
The girl began humming to herself, as she led them back to the port where his ship first anchored.
So it was, all this time, so close to where he first landed, Arthur realised with a sigh. He had walked the whole town for nothing.
They aimed for an old inn, only a minute's walk from the port. Loud singing and stomping sounded from inside. The girl walked in without a moment of hesitation and signalled for Arthur to enter after her.
A lonely bartender stood at the bar, polishing cups and plates. Tables stood around the dimly lit room in a scattered array, several of them occupied by small groups holding lively conversations. Loud singing rose from one of the tables, to which sat a group of clearly drunk sailors.
"There he is," the girl pointed to the far side of the room, at a figure in a blue coat. From where he stood Arthur could only see the man's back; his golden hair was tied with a silk ribbon and half-hidden in the shade of a wide-brimmed hat. He held a glass of dark red wine, and his shoulders shook with laughter at something his companion, an older seaman with a black beard, said.
Arthur narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look.
Just then, the girl surprisingly removed her hand from Arthur's arm (to his mixed relief and disappointment) and waved it in the air, shouting: "Francis! Hey, Fran!"
The man turned over. When he saw them, he waved back and placed down his glass on his table. "Carmen! Quelle agréable surprise!" He shouted above the noise, rising and swiftly making his way to them. When he arrived, the lady reached up and kissed both of his cheeks fondly. They exchanged a few sentences in French before the man turned his attention to Arthur. He raised an eyebrow at him, not unpleasantly. "Et… Vous êtes…?"
Arthur blinked. The girl, Carmen, saved him. "This gentleman here is from Britannia, Cap'n," she said sweetly – in English. "He got lost while searching for you, so I brought him here."
The pirate turned to give Arthur a long, examining look. Unlike some others present in the room, he didn't seem even a bit drunk; his blue eyes were focused and cunning. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said finally. "Monsieur…?"
"Kirkland," Arthur offered his hand for a shake. The pirate took and brought it to his lips, pressing a light kiss on his knuckles. His eyes glimmered with amusement when he noticed Arthur's clear stunned embarrassment, as the latter pulled his hand back to his side and unconsciously wiped it on the fabric of his coat.
The girl chuckled. "I'll be leaving you two to your business," she decided, and floated away into the room.
"Wait, thank you for bringing me here!" Arthur called after her, disappointingly receiving no response, as she was already greeting the bartender with a friendly call.
"So, you were looking for me?"
"I was." Arthur turned to the pirate. "I came to deliver a message..." He trailed off. How should he call this man? For some reason, Neither 'Sir' nor 'Mister' seemed fitting for a buccaneer.
"A message? From whom?"
Arthur hesitated. "Versailles," he said at last.
The word had a clear effect on the captain. His expression darkened. "It would be better for us to speak privately then, Mister Kirkland."
"I was just about to suggest that," Arthur agreed. "Shall we go outside?"
Even as he spoke they turned to the door, and leaving the noises of the inn's common room behind, exited to the open, salty air.