The Marquis de Vayeaux had only been in Kingston for a week, but already he felt as though he never wanted to leave. An expat nobleman living in England, he had put up with more coldness and foul weather than anyone could be expected to take. He'd finally decided he would only live once, sold his house, robbed a few dukes on the highway, and had put together enough money to comfortably live in the Caribbean for the rest of his life. Now, as he lay reclined on a hammock, watching the strong bodies working at the trading docks, he regretted that he had waited, denying himself a good life until he was thirty-five. "I, of all people, certainly deserve all the world has to offer," he thought to himself. "Why should it matter how I go about it?" Up until this point, his life in retrospect seemed an exercise in self-denial. For twenty-five years, he had done everything possible to please his parents. He had agreed with their decisions, been polite to their friends, studied what he was told to, and pretended to like women. Looking back, the Marquis had to give himself credit. It was the most complicated bit of acting he had pulled off to date, even with his more recent career on the London stage. When a discussion among his brothers had turned to a girl – Camille Trotois – upon whom it was commonly agreed was bestowed the most magnificent bosom in God's creation, the young Marquis had 'let slip' a few carefully chosen Freudian slips, and let his brother catch him in a compromising position behind the curtain of the ballroom where she was dancing with a pair of binoculars. All this and more served his well as a cover-up until his brother Jacques, coming out of a whorehouse in the red light district of Paris, caught a glimpse of the Marquis some ways down the street. Curious about what he was doing there, and equally determined he himself should not be found out, Jacques followed him at a safe distance, keeping himself well out of sight. When the Marquis turned a corner and disappeared into a dirty brick building at the end of an alleyway, Jacques smirked to himself. His womanizing brother had to be seeing his secret mistress, or a prostitute. Struck with curiousity, he climbed up a fire escape to see into the window of the building – he was curious to know just what his brother did in bed that made him so popular with the ladies. As Jacques arranged himself to get a better view, he saw something that almost made him fall out of the fire escape. At first, his brother was blocking his view into the window, passionately kissing someone whom Jacques could not see. As they parted, however, Jacques saw that his brother had been locked in a kiss with a man – a tall, slight Spaniard whom even Jacques had to admit was good looking. They kissed again, and Jacques, even though he knew he should be disgusted, was not able to tear his eyes away. They did not break away as the Spaniard ripped off the Marquis' shirt, and the Marquis subsequently began undoing his lover's trousers. Jacques wanted to see more, but at that moment the Spaniard's hand snaked out and closed the moth-eaten red curtains. So he trudged home, feeling spent and jealous, and told his father a tale of sodomy, almost convincing himself he was clean. And thus, the Marquis' exile began. When he returned to the chateau later that night, a carriage was waiting for him containing all his belongings. A servant told him his father had commanded that his son not be imprisoned for his disgusting crimes (he was, after all, a father) but he never wanted to set eyes on him again. His inheritance would go to Jacques, and he had given him just enough to leave France and never return.
The Marquis' awakening was abrupt. At twenty-five, he was still young and soft and naïve – what could, after all, be expected? He had spent his entire life being waited on and fussed over. When the carriage dropped him off at the boat docks, the sky was releasing a virtual deluge. The Marquis discovered he had just enough money left for a third-class boat ticket, and he used the journey as an opportunity to get up close and personal with the wharf rats. How often he'd cried on that journey. As the Marquis reclined, watching the setting sun with a bottle of Bermudan black rum at hand, he couldn't remember the last time he'd wept. Foolishly, as he'd set foot in a new country, the young Marquis vowed to himself to give up men once and for all. They had brought him nothing but sorrow before, and he was still young enough to believe he could change who he really was. He was not halfway down the street when he knew, deep within his heart, that it was impossible. Yet, he kept striving for naught. Eventually, he let everything go. And now, for the first time in his life, he was truly happy. It was just a matter of letting things get to you. The Marquis smiled to himself and walked in a straight line to the shore – holding his booze had always been one of his selling points. He watched the tide go out, slowly draining off the rum, and by the time the sun had gone down to reveal a starry Caribbean night, the Marquis had gone to sleep.
Meanwhile, Jack Sparrow was passed out in a doorway in the red light district. He knew he could never return to Port Royal, and Tortuga revived too many memories. Walking through those streets, Jack always saw faces he knew, like demons haunting him, refusing to let him go. Finally, he left to go somewhere where he knew nobody and nobody knew him. That place was Kingston, Jamaica. Jack knew as the rum knocked him flat that he would be fully awake by the dawn - awake with a pounding headache - but finally he would see that sunrise, and maybe he could start once more.