The lashing was indeed brutal, the cat opening the wounds on her back once more, as well as creating new gorges in her flesh and muscle. Once again the shirt had been torn from her back and tossed to the deck, though this time the crew watched leeringly, one even darting past the others to pick up the meager piece of cloth. Jones did not even glance at him, rather kept the blows coming and the lass bleeding. Her shrieks were something he had never witnessed in his life: loud and full of pain, they had an inhuman quality that surprised even him. With each blow she became louder and louder, quite the opposite of what usually happened to his victims.
Then, she stopped and slumped to the deck. He paused, bloody cat half-raised for another blow, wondering if she had passed out once again. But no, her eyes were still open, and they peered directly back into his blue ones. She had never dared to do that before, and the fact that now she was able to look him in the eye mildly disturbed him.
She panted for a moment, looking as if she had something she would say to him. He stood, frozen, as well as the rest of the crew. Why her newfound bravery disturbed him he did not know, but her eyes... There was no fear in them. There was no pain, no hatred, no anger... There was strength. Strength that wrapped itself around her like a blanket, allowing her to finally look up at the man who had brought about her living hell. What he saw for himself in those eyes was not fear, not even anger. There was pity, and more prominently, understanding. "I said I was sorry for how she treated ye," she began, coughing up blood and filth and spitting it out next to her, "but I am not she. I am not Calypso!" The last part she bellowed, in a voice he had never come from a lass, much less the one in front of him. It was strong enough to be a war cry, loud enough to rival that of a man twice her size. Then and only then did she slump over, unconscious from blood loss.
Jones did not know what to do. Her words, her face, they were still imprinted in his memory, ringing repeatedly in his mind like some obnoxious church bell. She was not Calypso. No, she was something else entirely, something he did not understand in the least. He did not like that one bit. "A bucket of sea water! Wake the lass up-uh" the command was bellowed angrily, and a few hurried to step to. His eyes never left her torn and heated form, the knowledge that he had done that imprinting itself in his had by the means of the cat still clutched tightly in his mostly human appendage.
The bucket was thrown over her limp form, and she shuddered, but did not wake. Again, a bucket was dumped, and again she did not wake. "Damn you lass!" Jones shouted. He would have to fix her himself, would he not? "Hadras, Turner, step lively and get some rum and cloth. Dresses, even-uh. Bring 'em to the galley-uh." The two singled out hurried to do as commanded, and he reached down and grasped the lass's neck in his crab claw. She flopped around like a fish out if water without anything supporting the rest of her, but Jones did not pay attention. He flipped her, stomach down, onto his shoulder and carried her limp body down to the galley. He himself could not heal others: he was more the 'destroy and kill' type. Turner could, he did not doubt. The man was too caring for his own good, as seen when he took his son's place at Liar's dice. The belligerent man did bit belong on a ship like the Dutchman.
Jones hastily threw everything from the rotted old table and placed the lass face-down on it. He then did his best to pull the bindings from her molted skin as well as the bandages from the previous whipping. Her back heaved, but she still would not wake. Had he beaten her to the point where she could hardly feel her back any longer? He did not know, but did know that he had never whipped a man more than he had her.
'She did not deserve it-uh,' a voice in his head spoke softly. "She is not responsible for your fate.'
"But she is responsible for the key being lost-uh," he said out loud.
'Is she? Or are you not wanting to take the blame yourself?'
"She distracted me!"
'You were distracted.'
"She loves Sparrow!"
'Why do ye care?' His eyes widened at that. Why did he care? If he had wanted to use his death as means to hurt her, would he have not done it mere minutes ago? But he had not. So why did he care?
His thoughts were interrupted by Hadras bursting in, dresses apron dresses piled in his sea-covered arms. His head, which must have been knocked off at some point or another, was perched upright on top of the stack, grinning stupidly. Behind him, Turner made a much less disruptive entrance. He too was carrying cloth, but also a small canteen of alcohol. "Use what ye need to clean her up. The rest be for her to sleep on," Jones said hollowly. Quickly, he stomped from the room and back to his own cabin, trying to escape the thoughts of his own mind. Not even his music would give him rest and, now more than ever, did he feel Calypso's curse. He let out a long, bitter bellow of range, pain, and sadness, which mixed with the screeching of his organ as his face and crab arm slammed into the keys.
Bootstrap had his work cut out for him- literally. The gouges from the cat o' nine tails had tore deeply into the muscle and sinew of the woman's back, and, though some of the wounds had begun to form scabs, the deepest of them still wept tears if blood.
He hated to see another human being like this. Not ever had any of the crew received punishment this bad: five lashes, maybe, but he had lost count after watching her fall to the deck at ten lashes. Jones was a cruel man, that was certain. No one knew he could be this cruel, though, and to a woman at that.
The woman part of that actually did not surprise Bootstrap. He knew the infamous tale of Jones and Calypso, and he knew Jones despised women with a passion. But this young lass... She could not have been older than twenty two. Still a child! And yet, she had suffered something before her introduction to the crew. Something that had made her fear death? Or was it simply that every man fears death, and women were no different?
Either way, he had a job to do. Hadras set about tearing up a dress to use for bandages and new bindings for her, as well as a new shirt. The loathsome scarf tied around her waist was cut off and used to blot away the blood. Bootstrap knew she was likely to get infected, which was why he was glad to have found some rum. Surprisingly the captain had thought of it, but who knew what he meant?
"There now, it's going ta hurt a bit..." He poured a bit of the alcohol on a strip of cloth from a blue satin dress and wiped her back down with it, every so often adding more rum to the strip. She hardly cringed the entire time.
He worked for near a half hour, cleaning and patching, then bandaging the entire mess once more. Blood still soaked through the bandages, but it was cleaned and could begin to heal at that point. "It will be a fitful night for 'er," he said sadly to Hadras, who was examining a particularly fancy gold dress. "Help me move 'ee, will ye?" Grunting, Hadras moved from his spot and helped Bootsrtap move the limp girl's body to the floor and the pile of dresses. One, a softer material, was cut open and draped over her naked back.
The two more compassionate pirates left after one last long glance at the girl on the floor, taking the glow of the lantern with them and leaving her in darkness.
Far off in her shack, Tia Dalma was enraged. She could feel that He was no longer as infatuated with her as he had been, if he even cared for her any at all anymore. The only difference was that she knew there was a woman aboard the Dutchman, and that his heart was starting to beat for another. She was a mighty goddess, though trapped in a fleshy prison. She knew Davy Jones had come to care for the wench from Tortuga. It was not love, she knew that. The heartless man was incapable of love, ever since the Incident. That did not mean she had relinquished her claim on him, though.
This girl, this mere girl, dared try to take her place. Cackling, she threw her collection of crab legs and claws, cursing the girl to a life of utter pain aboard the Dutchman until killed by the captain himself. She would become cursed as the rest of them were, though that part was already cared for. She had joined the crew, she had joined the curse. All Tia Dalma needed to do was enhance it slightly, make it speed up, cause more pain, and render whatever physical appearance she had into that of a monster.
