Chapter Four
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Exhausted from the evening's unpleasant events as he was, Hector slept fitfully for a short time and then grew weary of tossing and turning. He climbed out of his hammock, trying his best not to disturb Cezar, who was snoring loudly from where he was cocooned in a hammock next to him.
Things were quiet at that hour of the night, and Hector nodded to the few men on deck as he went to lean on the rail and watch the moonlight play over the waves that rolled past the Tempest. He was lost in thought about the story Cezar had relayed to him earlier, when he heard a number of hushed voices making their way toward him and turned to see who was speaking.
A strange sight met his eyes as he turned around. There were Mr. Murdock and Mr. Smith, along with two other sailors that Hector knew by name, McNeil and Taylor. They were hauling a large burlap sack to the rail not far from where Hector stood.
Murdock nodded at the boy briefly, and then spoke to the others. "Ready?" He got a nod from each of them. "Alright, on three then."
It became apparent to Hector that the large sack was about to be tossed overboard, and he felt a chill creep up his spine as it dawned on him what, or rather who, was in that sack. He'd heard of burials at sea from the fishermen, but didn't expect that he was going to witness one so soon.
"...Three!" Interrupted his thoughts as Murdock finished counting, and the four men heaved together to send the burlap wrapped body overboard with a collective grunt that was followed a couple of seconds later by a splash.
Some small, morbid part of Hector's psyche felt the desire to lean over and watch what happened to the body, but he resisted the urge and turned away. He looked up as Murdock placed a hand on his shoulder briefly as he passed. Smith, Taylor, and McNeil stood at the rail a moment longer.
"Well, that's another for theLocker," Taylor said darkly, "an' good riddance to 'im, I say." The others agreed with silent nods.
Hector frowned. "The locker?" he suddenly found he had asked out loud.
The three men looked over at him. "Aye," Taylor continued. "He belongs to Davy Jones' locker now."
Hector hated to sound stupid in front of the crew and so said nothing, but the confused expression on his face must have belied his ignorance.
Taylor leaned on his elbow against the rail. "Ye've not heard of Davy Jones, young Master Barbossa?"
Hector shook his head.
"Well," Taylor went on, "tha's prob'ly for the best. Hope ye never have the occasion to be making his acquaintance."
"Why?" Hector asked out of ignorance and curiosity.
"Why?" Taylor repeated incredulously. "Why? Because ye'd be dead or dying, that's why."
Taylor leaned closer and dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. "A demon of the sea he be...some say the Devil 'imself. If ye be unlucky enough to snuff it at sea, it's to the depths and the locker fer ye. They say that if ye be left fer dead, that Davy Jones 'isself comes to collect yer soul."
"But," McNeil chimed in with awe in his voice, "he gives you a choice if you're not dead yet."
Hector's eyes were getting wider. "A choice?"
"Aye," said Taylor, shooting McNeil a look for interrupting. "He offers ye a choice of going to the great Abyss or agreeing to serve for one hundred years aboard 'is ship."
His voice was fading to a hoarse whisper, and Hector leaned closer and whispered back. "His ship?"
The other three looked at each other with dread.
"Aye," croaked Taylor, "the Flyin' Dutchman." All three sailors crossed themselves at that moment. "A ghost of a ship that appears wherever there be a shipwreck or battle."
Hector was still trying to decide if the three sailors were as convinced of the legend's truth as much as they appeared to be, or if they were taking advantage of his gullibility and inexperience. He looked at Smith, who now added his two cents.
"They say his appearance is enough to scare a man to death in itself," he said.
"Aye," the other two agreed.
"Three rows of teeth..."
"Horns growin' righ' out of 'is head!"
"...and a great forked tail...
"And blue smoke wending it's way out of his nostrils," Smith added to finish.
Hector looked from one man to the next, trying to detect any hint of sarcasm or dishonesty. Although all three look pretty convincingly disturbed, he frowned as he spoke.
"Ye be tellin' me true, that there be a ship…the Flyin' Dutchman, sailed by a devil with horns an' a tail, and smoke curlin' out 'o his nose, that steals the souls of dyin' sailors, and his name be Davy Jones?"
"Aye!" all three whispered in earnest.
"Yes, well then down on yer knees, all of ye, because me name be King Charlie," Hector replied with a jaunty laugh, thinking that the description of Jones was utterly absurd.
Dead silence greeted him as the three stared back in obvious horror.
Hector's smile began to fade. "Surely ye jest?" he asked, starting to loose his cocksure manner.
McNeil and Taylor turned away, and the boy looked at Smith who remained for a moment longer.
"Just pray that you never need to find out, Mr. Barbossa." He walked away, leaving Hector standing at the rail with a prickly sensation crawling along his spine. He risked a quick glance across the moonlit water, gave a shudder, and decided to return to bed.
On deck the next morning, Hector sat repairing a sail next to Cezar, who was a little quieter than usual. He waited until there were few others around before he took the opportunity to ask the question he'd been dying to ask.
"May I ask ye a question?" the boy inquired.
"Of course," Cezar returned. He saw the look on the lad's face. "What is it?"
"What do ye know about Davy Jones?" Hector asked, trying his best to sound casual. He jumped at Cezar's reaction.
"Santa Maria, Barbossa! Do not speak his name aloud," Cezar whispered fiercely. "It is bad luck to repeat his name on the same ship too often."
"Sorry." Hector returned to his work, whishing he hadn't brought the subject up.
Cezar spoke more kindly again after a minute. "Why do you ask me this?"
Hector explained very briefly about the previous night's events.
"Ah, I see," replied Silva. "Let me tell you something, Barbossa. Marinheiros lie about a lot of things – the speed of their ship, the number of women they've had, but they never lie about something as serious at that."
Cezar went back to his work and said no more on the subject, but Hector found that he felt more anxiety about the legend sitting there in the bright sunshine with most of the crew around him after Cezar's comments, than he had in the middle of the night, on a nearly deserted deck with a dead body that had just been launched over the railing.
The next two weeks came and went, and as Cezar had prophesied, the butter had gone rancid, the crew resorted to salted meat, and the worms were beginning to appear in some of the bread. As for the water, well, it was rapidly approaching the point where you had to pinch your nose closed to be able to gag it down.
Nothing further was said about either McFadden or Davy Jones, and Hector decided that he was just as happy about both topics being left out of daily conversation.
The morning came when the lookout on duty spotted another ship well off to the east. It appeared to making its way in their general direction, but was too far away to tell where she was from, or precisely what sort of vessel she might be.
For the next half hour, the crew went about their business, but not without each man stopping periodically to try to get a read on what the captain's expression was as he monitored the nearing ship with the glass.
For Hector, it was just another ship, and his curiosity remained confined to what her country of origin might be, but it was becoming obvious that the anxiety level of many of the remaining crewmen was growing even as the distance between the two vessels closed. With all the discussion and speculation running through the men, it was not long before he heard someone whisper the word 'pirates'.
He looked at Cezar, who was periodically glancing at Wallace, waiting, like they all were, for some sort of reaction.
"Do ye really think they be pirates?" Hector asked, in a voice that said the trepidation felt by the rest of the crew was becoming contagious.
Cezar shook his head. "It is not likely. We are still a week and a half out of Jamaica, and most Caribbean pirates keep closer to the surrounding islands and the more traveled shipping lanes. Probably she is another merchant vessel, on her way out to sea."
Hector didn't think his friend sounded convinced. "Probably, ye say?"
Cezar shrugged. "Pirates have been known to sail these waters periodically, Barbossa..." He stopped short in mid-sentence and turned as they heard the captain speak to Smith.
"Make ready to hoist our flag, Mr. Smith." He then shouted up to the lookout. "Anything?"
"Nothing yet, sir," came the faint reply from overhead.
Smith returned from speaking to a pair of crew stationed at the mizzenmast. "Sir?" he asked the captain.
Wallace glanced up once more at the lookout and then at the nearing ship. He turned to the mate and opened his mouth, but said nothing, because at that very moment the lookout's voice called down.
"She's hoistin' her colors, sir!"
Wallace whirled and snapped the spyglass back to his eye, straining to see what flag rose atop the other ship's mast.
The entire crew's activity had ground to a tense standstill, and Hector and Cezar waited with the rest of them as Wallace concentrated.
"It's the Union Jack."
Appearing somewhat relieved, but far from relaxed, Wallace gave orders to the mate to hoist the Tempest's own flag.
"Hoist the colors!" Smith called to the two waiting men. The Union Jack rose quickly and smoothly to wave at the top of the mizzenmast.
Hector breathed a sigh of relief and turned to grin at Cezar, but his brow quickly furrowed when he saw the man still concentrating on Captain Wallace. "Aren't ye relieved they be flyin' the same flag as us?"
Cezar held a finger to his mouth to indicate Hector should wait. The ship was close enough now that tiny indistinct figures could be seen moving on her deck.
Wallace watched another few moments, while the tension continued to grow and the distance continued to shrink. At last he lowered the glass, looking relieved.
"Sir?" Smith asked, obviously anxious for news.
Wallace heaved a great sigh of relief. "They're watching us as closely as we are watching them. Not a soul is moving on that deck either." Wallace indicated the immobilized crew around them.
Another moment went by as the ship slowed and drew closer, and it became more certain that she was going to hold her colors.
The crew began crowding the rail as the new ship drew alongside and slowly passed. Her captains acknowledging each other with a wave, and Hector turned to Cezar for an explanation of what had happened as messages were shouted across from ship to ship. The other crew was likewise crowded at the rail, along with several passengers, including a pair of women with parasols that were returning to England from Port Royal.
"Ah," Cezar said, relaxed at last, " your education continues, yes?" He watched as the boy figured it out for himself.
"I understand," Hector began, "the captain waited to see if she truly be from England or if she might be a pirate vessel playing a trick."
Cezar nodded his approval. "Very good."
"And what would have happened, had she been a pirate ship?" Hector asked.
"Most likely the captain would have run up the white flag and gambled on peaceful surrender."
"Surrender?" The boy sounded horrified.
Cezar sighed. "Yes. This is a merchant vessel, Hector..."
"But the guns..." the boy started.
"Yes, we have cannons and guns too, but this crew is relatively small for the size ship we are, and if a battle did not go well for us...it would not go well for us after," Cezar said ominously.
He chucked as he saw the boy mulling it over. "Hector, most pirates want to be on and off a captured ship as quickly as they can, with the most profit and the least trouble possible. They are fearsome and savage fighters, but they also value their own skins."
He looked up at where the other ship was pulling away from their port side. "Despite the stories you hear, most pirates prefer not to fight if they don't have to. Surrender and cooperation from a targeted ship's crew often results in lenient treatment...although not always."
Hector snorted. "Not always?"
Cezar smiled. "It depends on the pirates. There are some that enjoy carnage as much as plunder. Even some of the more reasonable ones will shoot a few men just to make an impression."
"That'd be an impression that'd sink in quick," Hector replied, nodding.
"Yes, it would," Cezar agreed. "Think about it –if you were the captain of a pirate ship, Barbossa," he grinned as he saw the boy laughing. "Would you waste time and energy needlessly killing men who had done you no wrong, or would you grab the loot and run?"
Hector mulled it over for a minute or two longer than Cezar expected. "I guess I'd grab and run," he said, still looking thoughtful and watching the ship they'd encountered sailing away west.
"What?" Cezar asked, wondering what the boy was pondering.
"What about captives?" he asked. He spoke out loud but it was a question he had posed to himself as much as to Cezar.
Cezar shrugged. "More time and more effort. Most pirates don't bother."
"Yes, but if the goal be to maximize yer profit," Hector started, "there's little effort in holdin' a prisoner fer ransom."
"Hector, most sailors don't have family who are able to pay the kind of ransom that would make it worth while for a pirate to hold him hostage," Cezar said as they sat down together to finish working on the sail they'd been repairing.
"Aye, that'd be true enough in my case," Hector replied, "but mayhaps I not be intendin' to take sailors fer ransom," he replied, giving the older man a wry grin.
Cezar laughed aloud. "You? I hope you are not intending to take anyone for ransom, my friend!"
Hector laughed along with him. "Aye, but ye be the one to suggest I be a pirate, Cezar!"
"Purely hypothetical speculation," Silva replied, still laughing heartily.
"I dunno," Hector said, picking up the edge of the canvas in front of him. "I think I be takin' a shine to the name of 'Captain Barbossa'." He winked at Cezar and burst into laughter.
Cezar, still amused, rolled his eyes and pointed at the canvas in Hector's lap.
"Sew."
Jamaica drew closer as the days passed, and Hector found that he was itching to get back on dry land. Work aboard the Tempest was grueling and could be monotonous, and for the first time, the boy found that he was beginning to feel homesick.
Knowing Hector as well as he did by this point, Cezar picked up on the fact that the lad seemed subdued and even somewhat downcast over several days. Remembering his first trip away from his home in Viseu, it didn't take much for him to surmise what was bothering the boy.
He went in search of Hector one evening when the boy didn't eat dinner with him on deck as had been customary throughout their voyage so far. He found him cocooned in his hammock, and reached underneath to poke Hector in the back. "Hello."
The canvas lump that was Hector spoke back from within the confines of the hammock. "Hello yerself."
"You missed dinner, Barbossa," Cezar said gently to the slightly swaying form. "Are you ill?"
"I've had me share of worms today, thankee," came the slightly sullen reply.
Cezar laughed. "Cheer up, we will be there in a few days, my friend!"
The swinging lump said nothing in reply.
Cezar waited another moment, and then pulled an empty barrel over next to the occupied hammock and sat down with a sigh. "When I went on my first trip out to sea, it was about a month or so into it that I thought I had made a big mistake," Cezar began. "It was then that I began missing my home."
Silence still emanated from the swaying bump in the canvas.
"Is it so with you, Barbossa?" Silva asked him quietly.
A pause, and then came a faint reply. "Aye."
"It will get better, my friend. We have many new adventures waiting for us in Port Royal, yes?" Cezar waited patiently for an answer of some sort.
Finally, after a few minutes of the canvas swaying to and fro, a deep sigh issued from within, and then Hector's head appear. "I suppose." He flipped himself out and onto his feet expertly, and stood next to Cezar with something in his hands.
After getting no explanation for the next minute, Cezar finally inquired about the item Hector was holding. "What is that you have, Barbossa?"
Hector started as if he'd forgotten someone was sitting there. He glanced down at his hands and then offered the item to Cezar who took it from him gently. It appeared to be a wadded up lump of dark cloth, maybe black or very dark green. It was difficult to say for certain in the dim light. Something hard was wrapped inside.
"May I?" Cezar asked before he unwrapped it.
Hector nodded and watched to see what Cezar's reaction would be.
When Cezar began peeling back the cloth, a heavy gold chain poured out of the bundle and stopped abruptly, dangling from the object it was anchored to. He opened the parcel further and extracted a large flat bronze medallion.
Cezar let out a low whistle. "Where did you get this, Barbossa?" He held it up to get a better look at it, and watched as the large red gemstone in the center of the ornate piece glinted in the low light.
"It was me father's," Hector began. "Me mother kept it fer thirteen years and gave it to me the night before I left."
Cezar contemplated the medallion for a moment longer, wrapped it carefully and handed it back to the boy. "That serpent is a good luck symbol. You should keep that close to you always."
"I do," Hector replied, tucking the cloth away deep in his pocket. "I figure it'll prove to him that I be his son... if I find him." He wore a faraway look of determination that Cezar could recognize even in the half-light.