*If you've not read "Welcome to Tortuga" I suggest you do that first. Else-wise this won't make much sense.*

Pirates:

The Golden Masque

(A Pirates of the Caribbean Short Story)

By: Lady Sparrow

Summer always brought with it a multitude of weather. The conditions seemed to dance somewhere between raging storms and sweltering heat. While neither were very desirable, at least the warmth didn't involve constant risk of being swept from the decks by a stray wave. It merely drained the crew of energy, reducing them to sweating puddles of half dressed men. Ocean storms, however, were treacherous at best. Powerful gales would tear across the sea, threatening to rip sails from their masts and crewmen from their stations. Waves taller than ships would swell out of the depths, swallowing up any vessel unfortunate enough to be caught in the path. Rain came down in icy sheets, freezing every surface it fell upon and making the decks slick. Sure as the world was round, every sailor that cursed summer heat would pray for it once locked in the heart of a rampant tempest.

Near-arctic rain pounded The Rose as the ship fought its way towards the Grand Bahamas. It would only be a few more hours before the Schooner arrived at the modest English port. Emera Flint stood watch on the quarter deck. The collar of her greatcoat was turned up in an attempt to block out the wind and she wore a tri-corn that seemed to do a better job of collecting water than repelling it. The young sailor bounced on her heels in a futile attempt to keep herself warm. It wasn't working. The heavy wool of her greatcoat was doing a superb job of soaking up the rain, making Emera soggy to the bone. Her numb fingers where jammed into her pockets and she kept her face down, looking up at the deck through her bangs. She stood just beside the helm which was in the tight grasp of Lieutenant Briggs. On the main deck, crewmen worked to keep the sails and rigging in place. Men darted this way and that, slipping on the icy rain water that coated the deck. Each man wore a lifeline around his middle, all of which were secured to the base of the main mast. Emera tugged on her own lifeline, for the hundredth time, ensuring it's stability. As she did so another Officer clambered up the stairs towards her.

"Master Flint!" He called over the howling wind.

"Aye?" She replied, blinking water out of her eyes.

"I'm here to relieve you." He told her.

"Thank you." She nodded at him.

Emera scrambled to untie herself. Her deadened fingertips worked franticly against the knot in the rope. Thankfully, ropes had always been something she had a knack for. After a few moments of working she managed to loosen herself. The young sailor passed the lifeline to her replacement before making a quick retreat into the belly of the ship. Once safely below she removed her hat and shook the rain from her hair. She must have looked like a drowned rat but she knew just the cure. Emera set to navigating through the tight corridors with only one destination in mind. The narrow passageways twisted and turned almost endlessly. Had the young sailor not spent most of her life aboard the vessel, she no doubt would have lost herself in the maze. However, the pathways had been burned into her memory, making it nearly impossible for her to lose her way.

When Emera entered the galley she was met by the warmth of the stoves and the rich scent of cooking food, some sort of soup she thought. Taking a breath, she filled her lungs with the smell, instantly began to feel better. The galley was a long and narrow area near the ship's stern. At the far end of the space was the kitchen, which was lined with cabinets. A great wood-burning stove sat proudly against the back wall, heating the room as well as the compartments nearest it. Between the kitchen and the door sat long tables and benches at which the crewmen would dine. It was Emera's favorite place on board the ship. She had spent many an hour there in her time serving on The Rose. The young sailor shrugged out of her greatcoat, hanging it on a hook by the door before taking her usual place atop a counter. Emmet Hold, or 'Cookie' as the crew affectionately called the old English sailor, worked at the stove. He sang to himself as he threw ingredients into a hefty pot.

"It's all for me grog, me jolly, jolly grog,

All gone for beer and tobacco.

Spent all me tin on the lassies drinking gin,

And across the western ocean I must wander."

It was one of the shanties that the men would sing in their spare time and Emera knew it well. It was a silly song with an amusing rhythm. She listened to the old cook sing and watched him dance, as well as he could, around the small galley for a while. He noticed her when he turned to grab a clove of garlic and smiled.

"Well now, if it isn't young Miss Emera." He tugged his bandanna in a small salute, "I suspect yer here fer a bit o' soup. Well, ye'll have t' wait a while more I'm afraid. Not ready yet, ya see. Say now, you know this ol' song, sing a verse with yer ol' shipmate."

Without waiting for her to reply he picked up the song again. Emera smiled and joined in, allowing his skilled voice to guide her rough one through the notes.

"Where are me boots, me noggy, noggy boots,

They've all gone for beer and tobacco.

The leather's kicked about and the soles are all worn out,

And my toes are looking out for better weather."

Cookie let out a gruff laugh and wiped his hands on his grimy apron, "I, meself, am looking out fer better weather. What a gale we've entered! I can hear the heavens a-booming from here!"

"It's bloody retched out there." Emera hugged herself, a chill still lingering just under her damp skin.

"Aye." Cookie brandished a crooked finger at her, "I warned yer father there was a storm a-brewing. I tells him 'Cap'n I can feel it in me bones, I can.' But do he listen? Course he don't! I tell ya true, Me Emmy, yer father is as stubborn as a goat. Won't listen worth spit to those what know better than he do."

Emera had to laugh at this. Cookie had been sailing with her father since they had served in the English Navy as young men. When Flint abandoned the Royal Fleet for Piracy, Cookie was the only one of his original crew that stuck by him. The pair had been together ever since and had the most entertaining habit of arguing like an old married couple. The girl had often bore witness to their many quarrels, which were always more amusing than they were serious.

"I blame myself." She giggled, "I was the one that suggested we make sail for the Grand Bahamas."

"Ah," He narrowed his eyes at her, "So yer the little one what set us homeward bound, eh? What'cha go and do that fer, Me Emmy?"

Emera smiled again. 'Homeward bound.' After nine months at sea, she loved the sound of that. Flint had claimed a small island just north of the Bahamas and, ultimately, that was their destination. When Emera had suggested that they make port at one of the English settlements, Free Port to be exact, she had half expected her father to say no. However, the promise of being a stone's throw from home had managed to catch his attention. The plan was to pick up supplies before sailing round the archipelago for home. In truth, though she hadn't said anything, Emera had an alternative motive for setting in at the Bahamas. Still sitting in the bottom of her coat pocket was the crumpled and nearly illegible note she had received not a month prior. It was that very message that had directed her to the English port. So far, everything was going according to plan.

"Aye." She nodded, "I suppose I missed home, is all. I haven't seen Rosa or Mai or even Malcolm in ages."

"Hmm..." Cookie scratched at his grey stubble and turned back to the soup pot, "I suppose we've been at sea a long while now, ain't we? Mayhaps the crew could do with a spot o' shore leave. And I figure that Dad o' yers will be itching t' see his wife, eh? Not t' mention it gives ya the chance t' catch up with those siblings o' yers, now don't it?"

Emera grinned. He was right. Flint would no doubt be missing Emera's stepmother. The typically gruff and ruthless old Pirate had a way of turning soft whenever Rosa was near. He was absolutely mad about her. Cookie often told Emera that Rosa was the first woman to catch Flint's eye after her own mother was no longer in the picture. However, when Malcolm showed up the two realized that wasn't completely true. The young man was the result of a few weeks Flint had spent shacked up in the Philippines. He had met a woman there, Chona, and they had become very fond of one another. When Malcolm turned 18 he sailed out to the Caribbean, looking for the father that didn't know he existed. By this time Flint had married Rosa. His new bride as well as her daughter, Mai (from a previous relationship), had made their home on Flint's Island. Theirs was a unique family, but it was a family nonetheless.

"That it does." Emera agreed, "I only hope that Malcolm will be there this time. He hasn't been home the last few times I have. He's always out at sea..."

"Such is the life of an honest sailor." Cookie shrugged, "That brother o' yers is bound by the rules o' the merchant ship he sails on. Why he don't just turn Pirate and sail with us, I haven't the foggiest. Something about duty and honor, no doubt."

"It's simpler then all that." She explained, "He needs the steady coin, is all. He's still got his Mum t' look out for, ya know."

"Aye, that he do." Cookie nodded.

Emera opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by a group of men coming into the galley. The assembly consisted of four crewmen and Philips, Flint's second in command. The men laughed and joked loudly amongst themselves as they crowded around one of the long tables. Philips was a tall, shifty looking man that caused Emera's skin to crawl. He had the appearance of a thief but the attitude of a noblemen. He stood, one boot atop a bench, telling an account of one of his many (and false) acts of bravery. His story telling was childish at best. He formulated sentences as though he was trying to cram as many words into them as possible. And yet the crewmen that sat around him listened with eager ears. Emera rolled her eyes. She knew a man half Philips age who had had twice as many exploits and was blessed with the ability to enlighten any who wished to hear them in the most eloquent of manners.

"Cookie!" Philips roared, "A round of grog for these fine sailors and a helping of whatever yer putting together!"

"Aye, Sir." Cookie nodded, "Right away."

The men returned to their previous discussion. Emera ignored them, going back to watching Cookie work. When asked she would toss him various ingredients or supplies. It was something they had done together since she was young and it had become almost second nature to her. She loved helping the old sea cook around his kitchen. It was like a game the two would play. Toss that, catch this, find something else. Emera was nearly completely immersed in the work when something from behind her caught her attention.

So quietly she couldn't honestly be sure of it, one of the crewmen said, "Didn't know we's had a bar wench aboard."

Emera glance over her shoulder but couldn't be sure which of the four crewmen had made the remark. She wanted to call them out on it. Speaking ill of a Senior Officer was something that shouldn't be left unsettled. While she was trying to figure out which sailor needed to be reprimanded, Cookie had tossed her something. The bag of sugar hit her square in the chest, bringing her back to the happenings of the kitchen.

"Look lively, Me Emmy." Cookie grinned.

"Aye, Me Emmy." Came a snickering voice from behind her, "Look lively."

She whipped around this time, not bothering to hide her irritation. She glared at the men who simply avoided her gaze, pretending that she wasn't there. When she looked at Philips, he acted as though he hadn't heard what had been said. The fact that many of the crew didn't respect her was something that she was well aware of. She had to deal with everyday of her life. And she had known that Philips looked down on her since day one. But the fact that he was just standing there, idly, really jaded her.

"Emera, me girl." Cookie set down a few stein glasses full of grog next to her, "Would ya help an ol' cook out? Take these t' the gents, will ya? This ol' crutch o' mine makes it a might tough t' carry an arm load."

He nodded towards the wooden crutch that leaned against one of the barrels. Emera knew the story of Cookie's leg all too well. When he was serving with Captain Flint in the English Navy, their ship had fallen under attack. The Master Gunner was killed by a cannon ball tearing through the gun deck, leaving a dozen or so men without command. Cookie had been educated as a doctor when he had been young and he was on the deck at the time, tending to the wounded. He stepped up, taking command of the gunmen. The crew was organized in no time, but the ship was still taking heavy fire. A chain-shot ripped through the hull, sending chunks of ship flying in every direction. A spread of shrapnel buried its self into Cookie's left calf, severing the tendons there. Luckily, when the battle was over, he had been able to remove the shrapnel himself. Unfortunately the damage was already done and the old sailor had walked with a crutch ever since. In the galley, he could manage himself rather well. He often braced himself on the counter tops, hobbling this way and that with relative ease. However, out in the open he required a crutch to brace himself, which made carrying more than one object at a time rather difficult.

Emera nodded, "Aye, Cookie."

"There's a good girl." He smiled warmly at her and passed her the steins.

"Looks even more like a bar wench, she do." They weren't even hiding it now.

"I'd like t' get me hands on her kettledrums!" Another remarked.

"No, Mate!" His friend scoffed, "She ain't got much of an apple dumplin' shop!"

Emera suddenly felt the need to put her greatcoat back on. Or at least adjust her waistcoat so it covered her chest better. As she crossed to the table of men she could feel their eyes all over her. And although she knew perfectly well that she was clothed, Emera couldn't help but feel as though they could see right through the fabric covering her frame. She gritted her teeth a little, both self-conscious and infuriated.

"Sir," Emera addressed Philips now, "haven't you got something t' say about this?"

"Come now Master Flint." He let out a laugh, "Men will be men. You can't really expect them to act outside of their nature, now can you? In any case, they're thirsty. So hurry up with those drinks, Love."

His voice all but slapped her across the face. It was painfully clear that she wouldn't get any help from him. Not that she was surprised. As they sat there, snorting and laughing, Emera decided that enough was enough. The young sailor slammed the cups down hard upon the wooden surface, sending grog rocketing from the steins in every possible direction. There was an uproar of complaints and curses from the drink soaked men. Emera shot Philips a hard look.

"I'm an Officer aboard this ship, not your ruddy serving-girl." She kept her voice even, "I have better things t' be doing with my time."

"Why you little -!" Philips wiped his face angrily.

She turned back to look at Cookie, "I've just remembered that the Captain has work for me t' do. Perhaps I'll come back later when it isn't as crowded."

With that she turned on her heel, snatched up her greatcoat and marched out of the galley without looking back. Emera stalked down the corridors, grumbling to herself. She knew that there was little that could be done to change the attitude towards her. Most of the men hated the idea of taking orders from a woman. And they weren't afraid to show it. Even though her power aboard the ship was limited, she was of higher rank than those crewmen. Them, she could deal with on her own. Philips, however, was an entirely different story. While she had the authority to punish the crewmen, she could do nothing about her superior Officers. And the fact that he was second in command made matters worse. He had more influence over the crew than anyone, save Captain Flint himself. As long as he kept acting the way he did, so would the others. Emera tried to shrug off the bitter feeling that clung to her, but couldn't seem to manage it. She felt used and helpless and violated.

When the young Pirate reached the Officer's Cabin she trudged to her bunk. Like the galley, the cabin was a long room. It housed the sleeping accommodations and belongings of all the Officers, save Philips who thankfully had his own cabin. Their bunks were arranged so that the highest of rank were closest to the door and the lowest were farthest back. Emera, being only of moderate importance, was stationed in the middle of the room. Her hammock and belongings were between that of the Bos'n, a man called Peterson, and Lieutenant Briggs. She flopped down into her hammock, dropping her coat beside her.

Emera stared up at the low ceiling, still stewing and hugging herself. She couldn't wait to get to Free Port. For the last several days she had all but counted down the hours. The young sailor leaned down and rummaged through the pocket of her greatcoat, her fingers closing around the bit of parchment there. She pulled out the note. Since receiving it in Tortuga a month ago, she had carried it with her everywhere. This, of course, resulted in the bit of paper becoming quiet tattered and smudged. Even still she could make out the muddled, swooping scrawl that covered its rumpled surface. She read through it a few times, smiling to herself. The words always had a way of cheering her no matter how bad her mood was.

If all went well, in a few hours she would be in the company of Captain Jack Sparrow.